


Danger Nights

by deklava



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mycroft-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 29,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is losing one of Britain's most crucial resources: his mind. As John, Sherlock, and Lestrade struggle to find a solution, the past comes back to haunt everyone. Sequel to <i>Promise to the Living</i> and <i>The Devil in Devon</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta: the incomparable chasingriver.**

****

 

 **A/N:** This is the first chapter of book 3 in my Johncroft series. (Its predecessors are _Promise to the Living_ and _The Devil in Devon_.) If you haven't already, I recommend that you read the first two fics, as _Danger Nights_ features some OCs. To all those who are continuing with me in this AU: welcome back! - _Deklava_

_******_

John Watson was exhausted but happy. He and Greg Lestrade had spent the afternoon and early evening at an invigorating football match (London won), and Mycroft would be back from Prague tomorrow morning. As their cab turned onto Baker Street and stopped in front of 221B, he acknowledged that life was good.

Lestrade looked over at him. "What time does Mycroft get in tomorrow?"

"Early. Five-ish." John smiled as he took out his wallet. Sunrise arrivals invariably meant that he'd wake up in Mycroft's arms. The elder Holmes would take a chauffeured car directly from the private airport to Baker Street, let himself into the flat, and slide into John's bed, sometimes fully dressed… and sometimes not. They'd kiss, touch, and make love while daylight gradually brightened the room, relishing the rare intimacy of solitude. Their respective obligations made theirs a relationship sustained by calls, texts, and stolen time, but neither complained. They were, above all else, men who understood the concept of duty.

He couldn't wait for morning.

When he paid the cabbie and exited the vehicle with Lestrade, the first thing John heard was loud music. It wasn't coming from Sherlock's violin either. Judging by the range and volume of the clamour –pulsing bass, crashing drumbeats, reedy synthesizer riffs- either a rock concert or a block party was being held in the flat. Intermittent laughter provided an underscore.

"What the hell?" He stared up at the windows, where the curtains shivered under the force of the noise.

Lestrade's expression wavered between amusement and disbelief. "Any chance Sherlock decided to sponsor a rave and not tell you first?"

John shook his head. "Not a chance." He couldn't see Alexei being behind it either. The fourteen-year-old was staying with Sherlock and John while Mycroft was playing political chess in the Czech Republic. Like his father and uncle, Alexei had an aversion to pointless social gatherings. "I spend my time playing count the idiots," he grumbled once.

Baffled and now a little worried, John ran toward the door and nearly dropped his keys twice in his haste to unlock and open it. Once he and Lestrade were inside, the music's volume nearly sent them both staggering back into the street.

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade shouted as they both covered their ears. "The neighbours will report Mrs. Hudson for a noise disturbance."

Cringing at the thought of the landlady coming home from her Brighton vacation to a court summons, John led the way upstairs.

The two men burst into the flat, which had been an ordinary –if messy- dwelling only hours before. Right now it was doing double duty as a dance bar. Half-naked bodies snogged on the furniture and gyrated to the music. Liquor bottles, most of them empty, covered the coffee table, mantle, and kitchen table, where they infiltrated Sherlock's chemistry set.

"Hey!" a male voice yelled. A beefy teenaged boy with spikey black hair and kohl-ringed eyes was waving John's army automatic around. "Finally got the box open and look what's inside!"

John pushed through the half-somnolent bodies toward him, but Lestrade was faster. The former Detective Inspector grabbed the kid's wrist with one hand and used the other to wrest the weapon away. Then he pinpointed the source of the music- a surprisingly tiny MP3 player hooked up to boulder-sized speakers- and abruptly unplugged it, plunging the flat into silence.

"Listen up, everyone!" he bellowed as he tucked the gun into his waistband. "Party's over. Clear out- all of you."

A spotty-faced youth wearing ripped denim jumped off the sofa. "What's the deal, you old codger?" he demanded while his over-hennaed girlfriend giggled loudly.

Lestrade walked up to him. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"It's your lucky day then. Because if you were eighteen, you'd be going out the window, not the door."

John couldn't tell whether it was the threat or the cold, dangerous look in Lestrade's eyes that made the kid swallow nervously and sit back down.

"I'm not going to say it again." The ex-Yarder joined John at the door. "Everyone out. Single file. If I see any of you carrying something that belongs in this flat, you'll be turned over to the police."

John found his voice. "Wait a minute. Where are Sherlock and Alexei?"

Sherlock's sultry baritone responded. "I'm here, and I believe that Alexei is still monitoring the experiment in the toilet."

John spun around. Sherlock was on the landing, carrying shopping bags loaded with wine and liquor bottles.

"Sherlock," he said, keeping his voice level only via supreme effort, "what the FUCK is going on here?"

"An experiment," Sherlock replied as he approached. "And one which your inconveniently timed arrival may have ruined, might I add."

"What?"

"Everyone out. Now," Lestrade ordered the now-silent crowd. Grumbles accompanied the creaking of sofa springs and floorboards as the kids all filed out. One girl with turquoise hair and an intelligent face said before leaving, "You'll want to check the bedrooms. Might still be people in them."

John's blood pressure rose. Lestrade said quickly, "I'll go look."

"They won't be in mine," Sherlock told him. "I locked the door."

Shaking his head, the ex-Yarder headed for John's room. When he was gone, the detective walked past John into the flat and dumped the bags on the sofa in a fit of pique.

"I just spent eighty pounds for nothing," he scowled.

John put his hands in his pocket to avoid wrapping them around his flatmate's graceful neck. "I'm still waiting for you to explain why our flat is the place to be in London tonight."

"It's for the Benning investigation."

He was referring to the latest case that the HWL (Holmes-Watson-Lestrade) detective agency had accepted. The client, a wealthy Hampstead resident, claimed that her sister's recent death had been murder, not accidental asphyxiation. Lestrade had called on some former colleagues at the Met to obtain a copy of the investigation file, which included some rather nauseating photos of vomit contents and patterns.

John was dangerously close to exploding. "What's that got to do with your letting minors into our flat and buying liquor for them?"

"We –Alexei and I- are photographing samples to compare to the evidence collected at the scene. I need more information about the digestive process and what regurgitated food looks like at various stages after being initially eaten."

John's nostrils flared. Sherlock didn't seem to notice. He actually looked pleased with himself as he continued.

"Each time someone goes into the toilet to be sick, Alexei follows them, asks when they last ate, and takes pictures."

Lestrade reappeared with a teenaged couple in tow. They were giggling and rearranging their clothing as they left the flat. "Toilet door's shut," he said. "But Alexei's in there with some kid who's being sick." Glancing at John, he commented, "I'll bet Sherlock's explanation is interesting."

"Idiotic would be a better term," John growled. Although he suspected that he knew the answer, he added, "Whose fucking idea was this?"

"It initially occurred to me when a pair of rather inebriated young girls arrived on our doorstep thinking they'd reached a different address, where a party was being hosted. One of them became ill on the pavement, and Alexei had the presence of mind to take a picture. But a single sample is not sufficient data, so I invited the young ladies to come in and have a party here, and invite their friends." Sherlock sniffed in disdain. "They proved to be more popular than their appearance warranted."

"So you bought them liquor to make them sick so you could get these 'samples'."

"I didn't pour it down their throats, John."

"What you did was illegal," Lestrade scolded.

"Mycroft would have stood down any police interference."

Mycroft's name made John think of Alexei. Needing to get as far away from Sherlock as possible before he lost it completely, he walked to the toilet door, which was still closed. Hearing whispers on the other side, he pushed it open.

A big youth who had to be at least nineteen sat on the floor, legs crossed and back braced against the wall. The toilet had been flushed, thank God, but the air was so hot and sour that John grimaced.

Alexei squatted on his heels, elbows resting on his knees and a camera clutched in one hand. "John," he greeted without looking up. "I heard you and Gregory come in. I hope the guests didn't disturb the place too much."

"Pathetic as this sounds," John said, "I'm not too surprised to see Sherlock pulling a stunt like this. But you… I'd always hoped you'd be the adult."

Alexei wasn't chagrined. "It was a perfect opportunity to collect data for that case."

The drunken youth, who was fiddling with something in his pocket, snickered. "This your dad or something?"

John glared. "No. His dad is going to have a lot more to say about this than I will."

Alexei didn't look worried. "It's for a case. He'll understand."

"Don't be so sure," Mycroft Holmes said.

Alexei's eyes widened and John spun around, heart leaping in joy despite his earlier fury.

Mycroft stood in the dim hallway, looking elegant and imposing in his tailored overcoat and teal blue three-piece suit. A solemn-faced Lestrade and a visibly uneasy Sherlock hovered behind him.

"I was able to conclude my obligations earlier than expected," he said as he approached. The light over the toilet sink shone on his face, revealing an expression that stopped John cold. "I anticipated a pleasant reunion. Instead, I found this on the stairs."

He opened his gloved fist and held it out, revealing a dirty-looking vial of white powder.

"Hey, can I have that if you don't want it?" the drunk kid slurred.

John stared down at the plastic container. Having worked with addicted soldiers, he recognized its contents immediately.

Cocaine. Concentrated destruction in a vial. And Mycroft had found it in the building where his brother, a former addict, lived. Where his _son_ was staying. John quickly forgot his own anger as he realized that terrible memories had to be running through the man's head right now.

"It doesn't belong to anyone here, Mycroft, you know that," he said gently. "But it's been a bit mad here tonight. Come on, let's go into the living room and Sherlock and Alexei will explain-"

But Mycroft wasn't listening. His eyes rolled back in his head just before the British government fell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta:** chasingriver

Mycroft regained consciousness while John and Lestrade were positioning him face-up on the sofa with his feet elevated. He protested weakly, seeming embarrassed, until John reluctantly helped him sit up.

“I’m fine,” he said, although his waxy pallor suggested otherwise. “I’ve just had a very long and stressful day.”

“You don’t look fine. Your colour is terrible,” Lestrade told him. “John, is there any orange juice in the refrigerator?”

“I think it was all used as a vodka mixture tonight,” Sherlock admitted. “Even the batch I added the mold cultures to.”

Alexei declared, “Tea with lots of sugar will be sufficient.” He got out of his chair and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get it.”

Mycroft rubbed his right shoulder. “How long was I unconscious?”

“Only a few minutes,” John said.

“Deplorable,” the elder Holmes muttered. “I apologize for my rather alarming reaction. As I stated, I’ve had an abnormally difficult day. I know that the cocaine didn’t belong to anyone living here. The moment I stepped through the front door it was apparent to me that someone had decided to witness London’s nightlife without leaving the flat.” He looked pointedly at Sherlock. “Guests to such events typically bring their own party favours.”

“It was for a case, Mycroft.”

“Yes, I suspected the usual.”

“We may have collected enough data to confirm that a woman was murdered.”

“I see. How did she supposedly die? From a drug overdose at a party where liquor was provided to minors?”

Sherlock scowled. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

Although Mycroft was scolding his brother with his usual condescending finesse, John could tell that he hadn’t rallied completely from his collapse. He kept blinking rapidly and taking quick, discreet breaths through his nose. Colour was slowly returning to his face, but a fine layer of sweat remained.

“I’m going back to the townhouse with you tonight,” John said, taking his hand. “Bed for you as soon as we arrive. Doctor’s orders.”

Mycroft managed to smile. “I don’t need a doctor, John. I just need you.”

Glancing toward the kitchen, where Alexei was unplugging the whistling electric kettle, John said in a low voice, “I’ll be in the bed too.”

Lestrade chuckled. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, “Must you, John? Really?”

Although the younger Holmes accepted his only friend’s relationship with his brother, John knew that he was desperate to avoid reminders of its physical aspect. The doctor privately enjoyed dropping the occasional vivid hint whenever Sherlock misbehaved, and tonight had definitely been one of his more obnoxious moments.

“Tea for anyone else?” Alexei called. When everyone except Mycroft declined, he came into the living room with a single steaming mug. As he held it out to his father, he admitted, “It’s sweeter than you normally take it, but you need the sugar.”

Mycroft smiled weakly. “Thank you.” He took a sip. “So how did you enjoy your first teenaged rebellion?”

Alexei was really a teenager only in terms of age: Holmesian intelligence and years spent under the purview of a terrorist group called the Consortium had left him fourteen going on thirty. He and Mycroft related to each other more like equals than father and son. Curfews and other teenage-oriented restrictions were unnecessary where he was concerned, so Mycroft focused instead on guiding and protecting him.

The elder Holmes worried constantly that the Consortium would try to reclaim the boy: Alexei had been one of its most promising assets before his mother, Mycroft’s former lover, rebelled against its leaders and enabled his escape. Alexei was never left alone: his bedroom at his father’s townhouse had its own security system, and whenever he stayed at Baker Street overnight, he either shared John’s bed or slept on the living room sofa while Sherlock worked in his kitchen chemistry lab. No discernible attempts to kidnap him had been made yet, but Mycroft’s vigilance continued.

“I hadn’t intended it as a rebellion,” Alexei replied. “Sherlock was right: this was for a case. Justice for a murder victim depended on us getting certain types of data.”

John tried not to smile, and failed. Only Alexei could make an underage drinking party sound like a tool for justice. Even Sherlock looked impressed.

“You must show me how you do that one day,” he told his nephew.

“Do what?”

“Come up with answers that stop Mycroft’s tedious lectures.”

“It’s called being sincere.”

Lestrade laughed. “That might be a good one for you to learn, Sherlock.”

“Sincerity doesn’t work for me, apparently. Whenever I’m honest, someone tells me to piss off or tries to hit me.”

“Your reaction was perfectly understandable given the fact that Sherlock is a former addict,” Alexei told Mycroft. “But please don’t worry on my behalf. I have no interest in trying cocaine or any other drug. Ever.”

John believed him. Alexei wasn’t prone to black moods and boredom-induced depressions, both of which had driven Sherlock to the cocaine needle while he was still in his teens. The boy was a little too strong-willed at times, but when it came to avoiding illicit temptation, John and Mycroft both considered that to be a good thing.

“I know,” Mycroft said, taking another gulp of the over-sweetened tea before setting the cup on the coffee table. “Again, I apologize.” He rubbed his right shoulder and looked around. “My driver is still outside. John, perhaps we should leave now?”

“Of course.” John kept his voice light, but he was still concerned. Mycroft seemed dazed. He kept staring at his hands and other objects in an obvious attempt to appear focused. When they were alone, John intended to ask him more personal questions, to determine whether or not he was actually ill or coming down with something. Finding cocaine in the building, although an upsetting occurrence, should have resulted in a furious tirade at his brother, not a fainting spell.

John knew that he was not alone in his worry. Alexei and Sherlock were watching the elder Holmes closely, expressions neutral but eyes narrowed.

Mycroft stood up carefully and took a deep, slow breath. “Alexei, Mr. Cullen will come to collect you tomorrow afternoon and bring you home. I trust that you won’t be planning on holding any more public events here?”

Alexei gave him an obligatory smile. “I believe that we collected enough data this evening.”

“Very well. I shall hold you to it. Let’s go, John. Gregory, your home is en route: may we offer you a ride?”

“Thanks, but no. I reckon I’ll stay and help clean up,” Lestrade replied, giving John an odd, worried look.

John didn’t bother packing anything: an extra set of everything he needed was at the house. As they exited the flat, he could feel the weight of three pairs of eyes upon his back. Mycroft, whose powers of observation were normally so astute that he could instantly spot a new addition to the messy bookshelf or a replaced shirt button, seemed oblivious to the scrutiny.

After some initial faltering, he walked with his usual brisk step, one arm linked with John’s while he carried his umbrella in the other hand. But he remained subdued and distracted as they left the house and walked across the pavement to the government sedan idling at the curb. Neither of them spoke until they were seated in the car and cruising through London, en route to Knightsbridge.

“Mycroft,” John said, shifting on the seat to face him, “are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Just tired.” The elder Holmes reached for John’s hand and grasped it tightly. “I’m beyond happy to see you. I really am. Please forgive me if I’m not showing it with my usual enthusiasm.”

“Just checking.”

“Always so thoughtful.” Mycroft leaned forward and brought their lips together. “You’re my rock, John.”

As he returned the kiss, John murmured, “I missed you.”

“Likewise.”

The car was travelling along Park Lane when Mycroft, who’d been gazing out the window and stroking the back of John’s hand with his thumb, sat up straight on the seat. “Cullen,” he called to the driver. “I need to make a stop.”

“Certainly, sir. Where?”

“The bar at 140 Park Lane, please.”

The vehicle eased out of traffic and approached the stately stone building that housed the London Marriott Hotel and the aforementioned bar / restaurant.

“What are we doing here?” John asked, surprised. 140 Park Lane was Mycroft’s preferred dining spot next to Apsley’s at the Lanesborough, but the hour was late. “Haven’t you eaten dinner yet?”

“No. I have had a curious sensation in my stomach all day. I’m hoping it’s nothing that some tomato consommé with vegetable cappelletti won’t ameliorate.”

140 Park Lane wasn’t crowded, as the dinner rush had concluded hours ago. When Mycroft and John entered the restaurant section, the staff welcomed them enthusiastically and escorted them to Mycroft’s favourite corner table. 

“Mr. Holmes,” the maître d’ beamed. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been travelling in places where the food isn’t exactly divine, so it’s my pleasure to be back, Ronald.” Mycroft shook his hand and sat down. “I’ll start with a bottle of Burgundy:  2001 Domaine Ramonet and two glasses, please. We should be ready to order when you return.”

John’s worry persisted. The elder Holmes was coherent, affable, and where John was concerned, affectionate. But there was an autopilot undertone to his behaviour. His eyes lacked their usual animation and his facial expression, while pleasant, was comparatively lifeless.

“Tell me about Prague,” John urged, hoping that conversation would rejuvenate him.

“Lovely city, from what I saw of it. I was in closed meetings throughout most of my stay.” Mycroft gazed toward the bar. When he smiled wanly at someone there, John turned around.

An elegantly-dressed but otherwise average-looking man was sitting alone at the richly polished countertop, sipping amber liquor poured over ice. He nodded at John before eying Mycroft, who continued to smile at him.

“Do you know him?” the doctor asked, confused.

“I’ve never seen him before. But I know what he is.” Mycroft toyed with the silverware, an empty- and for him, atypical- gesture.

“What do you mean? What is he?”

The man turned away and whispered to the bartender.

“Tonight,” the elder Holmes said, “he’s a kindred spirit of mine.”

The maître d’, Ronald, returned with the linen-wrapped bottle of wine and two glasses. John recognized the label: Mycroft had ordered it before, and it had added nearly two thousand pounds to the final bill. After a glass had been poured for each of them, Mycroft asked for the tomato consommé with vegetable cappelletti. John ordered the lemon sole.

“Excellent choices, gentlemen,” Ronald said with a grin that practically hung from his earlobes.  When he left, John leaned forward to say something- only to be interrupted by a waiter bearing two liqueur glasses.

“Our finest Lillet blanc. Compliments of the gentleman at the bar,” the man explained. John was confused, but Mycroft waved at their watching benefactor and accepted the drinks. As he handed one to John, he said, “Please convey my thanks for his generosity.”

After the waiter left to deliver the message, John frowned. “I thought you said you don’t know him.”

Mycroft sipped the aperitif. “I don’t.”

“Then why did you just accept drinks from him?”

“To make him happy. Besides, he’s not doing it only for us.” Mycroft nodded toward the bar and John turned around. Sure enough, the same waiter was bringing two more glasses to a middle-aged couple sitting at the other side of the restaurant. They were surprised, but accepted. The husband lifted his drink in a toast, which the man at the bar happily returned.

John was puzzled. “He’s buying drinks for people he doesn’t know. What’s he trying to do- go through his money until he’s got nothing left?”

“That’s precisely what he’s doing.”

John didn’t understand, but he drank the vermouth anyway. It warmed his stomach, but did nothing to ease his concern.

The waiter appeared a second time.

"What'll it be, gentlemen?" he inquired, smiling. "Mr. Rafferty is buying for all the patrons."

“Glenlivet. No ice,” Mycroft said. John didn’t answer: he was too busy staring around and counting the other diners. There were twenty-two in all.

“I’m fine with what I’ve got right now.” He nodded down at his wine glass. “But tell him I said thanks.”

The waiter turned to leave, but Mycroft stopped him. “Ask Mr. Rafferty if he will join us at our table.”

“ _What?”_ John hissed. When the waiter walked into the bar area, he hissed, “What are you doing? Mycroft, something’s wrong with you. We should just leave-”

Before he could finish, the aforementioned Mr. Rafferty appeared at the table, carrying his drink. He was thirty-five at most, and had thinning sandy hair. His suit was from Saville Row, but he wore it uneasily, as if stylish dressing was not his usual habit.

“Thanks for inviting me to join you, guys,” he said in a broad American accent. “It was getting a bit lonesome sitting there.”

“Your company is most welcome. Do sit down.” Mycroft gestured toward one of the empty chairs. “I’m Mycroft Holmes and this is my dearest friend, Dr. John Watson.”

“Lionel Rafferty.” The man shook hands with both of them and sat.

A carnival atmosphere suddenly descended over their table. While John stared from one to the other in growing confusion and worry, Mycroft and Rafferty drank to each other’s health and chatted like old friends. When the maitre d’ and two waitresses brought their food, the elder Holmes insisted that the American order anything on the menu: at his expense.

Rafferty told them that he was from Chicago, and had come to London for a month to recover from a broken heart. “My mom is from London, so I decided to go as far away as possible while still retaining a sense of home,” he explained. He said that last week, while walking near Marble Arch, he’d met a wonderful woman. Her name was Anna, and he planned to meet her at a trendy bar in Soho later that night.

“She’s gorgeous, guys, and a fantastic listener. Twice we stayed up all night talking….”

John listened politely, but privately thought that the man seemed odd. Rafferty described his new lady love as if she were a goddess, and too perfect to be real. He didn’t appear to be drunk, but there was something in his stare that was a little too vacuous, reminding John of a small child blowing a story out of proportion for his own gratification.

Mycroft listened to him with rapt attention, asking questions that made Rafferty squirm with delight and go into further detail. Finally, after two hours had passed, the American stood up.

“I have to be going,” he said, offering his hand to each of them. “Thank you, Mycroft and John, for a great evening.”

“Have a good time with Anna,” John said politely, shaking his hand. As Mycroft did the same, the elder Holmes said, with a trace of sadness, “Have a safe journey, Lionel.”

Rafferty hesitated. His smile slipped, and he looked at the two men warily, like he expected to be detained. When neither of them moved from the table, he smiled again, bade them goodnight, and left the restaurant.

“What was that?” John demanded, turning to Mycroft.

“Our good deed for the evening, John.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And what did you mean by wishing him a safe journey? He’s not leaving London for awhile yet, he said.”

Mycroft stared at the tablecloth. “Not alive, anyway.”

John’s breath froze in his throat. “What?”

“I thought it was rather obvious.” Now that Rafferty was gone, the elder Holmes lost his animated air and seemed depressed. “He’s not accustomed to dressing so well: liquor stains on his shirt cuffs and right knee indicate that he is usually more casually attired when drinking. He’s in an expensive restaurant outside Hyde Park, buying drinks for people he doesn’t know. He’s clearly living beyond his means while in London, but by the time the credit card bills arrive, he won’t have to worry about paying them.”

“What are you saying?”

“He’s going to kill himself tonight, John. I knew it after he sent us the first drink. That’s why I invited him to our table: he deserved to have one last enjoyable night. It was the least I could do for a kindred spirit.”

“Jesus Christ!!” John leaped away from table, ignoring the stares of the other diners, and ran to the restaurant’s front door. He looked up and down Park Lane, heart hammering, but there was no sign of Lionel Rafferty.

When he turned back into the restaurant, there was also no sign of Mycroft Holmes.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta:** chasingriver

John found him in the men's room. He was standing before the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror and ignoring the gush of water from the taps.

"John," he said without turning around. "I take it you failed to find Mr. Rafferty?"

The doctor wiped cold sweat from his forehead. "Mycroft, please. You must have some idea of where he's gone."

"I don't, actually. But if you're that determined to disregard his wishes, you can obtain his real name by requesting to see his credit card receipt, although the bartender may not disclose it for privacy reasons. He's also staying within a ten-minute radius of this hotel, judging from the limited dirt accumulation on his new shoes and other indicators too numerous to mention."

Without taking his eyes off of Mycroft, John grabbed his mobile and called Lestrade. He told the ex-Yarder about Rafferty's strange behaviour and suspected suicidal intent.

"Did this bloke actually say he was going to kill himself?" Lestrade asked.

Time was of the essence, so John said impatiently, "Let's just say that he did."

"All right. Let me call someone I know at the Met. They'll get on it immediately. Is… is Mycroft any better?"

John stared at the elder Holmes, who hadn't moved once. "No. Now make that call, for God's sake. Before it's too late."

When he hung up, Mycroft said flatly, "Noble as ever, John."

"Listen to me." John pocketed the phone and touched his arm. "I don't want to hear any more bullshit. You're not well. You need to tell me what's happening with you."

Mycroft shook his head. "It will pass. It always does."

"What will? Please tell me."

The elder Holmes looked down at the gushing taps as if noticing them for the first time. Turning them off, he added, "We can talk in the car."

John escorted him back into the restaurant, keeping close enough to seize his arm if necessary. He knew that if the situation escalated into a struggle, Mycroft could easily overpower him long enough to escape. But staying close to his lover calmed his sense of helplessness somewhat.

While Mycroft donned his coat and exchanged some parting pleasantries with the maitre d', John gazed aimlessly around the restaurant- and immediately noticed that a man sitting alone at a corner table was watching them intently.

He hadn't been in the restaurant earlier: John was sure of that, as his table stood in the doctor's line of sight. He was young, dark-haired, and presentable enough to blend in with 140 Park Lane's upscale clientele. His eyes, on the other hand, were cold and devoid of curiosity, admiration, or any other benign motive for looking at them.

When John stared back, the man quickly turned away and feigned interest in the menu. But the former army doctor wasn't fooled: his years as a soldier and crime fighter had fine-tuned his ability to identify an enemy.

Mycroft touched John's shoulder. If he had noticed the stranger's scrutiny, he did not comment. "Let's go."

John did a visual sweep of the crowds and parked vehicles as they left the restaurant and got into the government car, but didn't detect anything suspicious. When the journey to the townhouse resumed, he relaxed a little while Mycroft took out his phone and started texting.

"I'm sending instructions to Anthea for tomorrow morning," he said.

"For what?"

"I'm going to see a doctor." In a feeble attempt at humour, Mycroft added, "Not in the same way I see you, of course."

While waiting for him to continue, John glanced out the rear window to see if they were being followed. They weren't, as far as he could see, but he still wished he had his army revolver on him. Just in case.

"Sherlock is not the only one who struggles with his moods, John. He merely happens to deal with his in self-defeating ways." The elder Holmes paused in mid-text and stared out the window. "Fortunately, it does not afflict me often. This is the first instance in over three years."

His voice trailed off. When he didn't resume, John said gently, "You're exhibiting the classic signs of a nervous breakdown, Mycroft. With all of your responsibilities and the schedule you keep, I'm surprised you don't experience one every three _weeks_ , let alone years."

"I'm glad I don't, for the consequences would be severe. I wouldn't be able to do my job, and people would suffer." Mycroft finished composing his message, sent it, and put the phone away. "I experienced it more frequently when I was younger, and Sherlock was a constant source of worry. Nowadays, it's blessedly rare."

He seemed tired: his shoulders slumped and his chin lowered toward his chest. John felt guilty for questioning him, but he had to know more.

"Have you ever taken medication for it?" He tried to remember the contents of Mycroft's medicine cabinet. All that came to mind was a half-empty bottle of paracetamol and unfinished antibiotic prescriptions.

"No."

"Maybe you should. There's no shame in it, you know. Remember those mood stabilizers you encouraged me to take when I thought Sherlock was dead? They were a lifesaver. They helped me cope until I could manage on my own." He touched Mycroft's hand. "Is this doctor you're seeing tomorrow a psychiatrist?"

"Yes. Dr. Lowery. I've known him for over twenty years. He's discreet and trustworthy." Mycroft shifted on the leather seat and wrapped his arms around John in a weak hug. He moved slowly, as if at the limits of his physical endurance. "I'm terribly sorry if I've alarmed you tonight."

"Christ, Mycroft," John half-sobbed. He wanted to scream at the man for a lot of things right now: letting a suicidal individual walk out of the restaurant unchallenged, not taking better care of his mental health, pushing himself to the point where he was fainting and staring blankly at bathroom mirrors. But he couldn't bring himself to do it: in Mycroft's current condition, hard words would have an abnormally destructive effect. "I wish you'd told me sooner."

"I always hoped that I wouldn't have to. After three years, I fooled myself into believing that my personal demons had finally loosened their hold. Now I realize I was guilty of wishful thinking."

"What time are you seeing Dr. Lowery tomorrow? And where?"

"I've requested a ten o'clock appointment, and he will most assuredly make time for me. At St. Thomas's Hospital."

"I'm going with you."

"Of course. If you like." Mycroft paused. Then he added in an odd voice, "But the session sometimes exceeds two hours. You will be waiting awhile."

"I don't care if it takes two days." John pulled back and stared into that beloved but alarmingly weary face. "I just want you well."

"I want to be well too, John. If I ever fall, more will be lost than just my mind."

Upon arrival at the townhouse, the elder Holmes went straight to his bedroom while John, the driver, and the two bodyguards stationed outside the residence walked from room to room, deactivating some alarms and reinforcing others. As he keyed in codes and adjusted locks, John couldn't stop thinking about the man in the restaurant. He knew that Mycroft Holmes was watched by a number of subversive parties whenever he appeared in public, but something about that stranger with the glacial eyes had unnerved him.

When the employees left, he went upstairs to the master bedroom and found Mycroft standing before his open sleepwear drawer, looking confused.

"I can't choose," he complained in a small voice. "This is rubbish. Why can't I decide?"

"I've always liked you in this one," John said gently, taking out a pair of red silk pyjamas. "You're exhausted. I'll help you."

With atypical docility Mycroft let John remove his suit and dress him in the pyjamas. After John changed into his T-shirt and boxers, they went into the bathroom together and washed up.

"Thank you for assisting me," Mycroft murmured after spitting toothpaste into the sink. "I'm very embarrassed."

"Please. Don't be."

John knew that it was hard for a proud, normally controlled man like Mycroft Holmes to need help with such basic functions. Nearly two years ago he himself had been in a similar state: believing that Sherlock had died in a gruesome suicide, John had grieved and deteriorated to the point that even living was too much, and he'd planned his own death. Mycroft had retrieved him from the abyss and restored his will to live. When those dark days ended, their relationship had dawned, brilliant and healing and sustaining.

By the time they got into bed, the elder Holmes was too weary to talk, let alone indulge in their usual intimacies, so they simply lay there together. Mycroft rolled onto his side, rested his temple against John's shoulder and fell asleep almost immediately. His overburdened, failing mind was resting at last.

John watched him all night, heart swelling with love while worry bruised it almost beyond endurance.

******

When they woke up together shortly after seven, Mycroft seemed more alert, but there was a slowness to his speech and movements that signalled the depression's continuing grip. He showered, shaved, and dressed without assistance but refused to eat or even drink anything except small sips of water. "My stomach is slightly unsteady," he explained.

John frowned. "Have some dry toast then. You need to keep your strength up."

"I'll eat something later." Mycroft put his water glass down and pushed his hair out of his eyes. That was when John noticed that he hadn't applied the usual avalanche of product to keep his hair straight. It fell across his forehead in soft auburn waves, making him look more vulnerable.

Empty stomach. Dry, _clean_ hair. If John didn't know better, he would have thought that surgery, not psychotherapy, was on the agenda.

"Mycroft," he said, "if Dr. Lowery recommends that you take medication, I hope you'll do it. It sounds like you should have been on some kind of mood stabilizer long ago."

"Of course," the elder Holmes answered in the same noncommittal tone that Sherlock used when he wanted John off his back. When John regarded him suspiciously, something inside Mycroft visibly folded. He walked slowly over to the table, where the doctor sat with his breakfast of tea and toast, and sank into the other chair.

"I must be honest with you. My appointment with Dr. Lowery is for a procedure, not psychotherapy."

"A procedure?"

"Yes." As he spoke, Mycroft's eyes glided all over the kitchen and dining area, taking in everything except John. "A man in my position must exercise extreme caution when seeking treatment for mental afflictions. Pharmaceutical intervention is too risky: tablets could be seen by unfriendly eyes, and even the most discreetly maintained prescription records could be accessed. Enemies would scent weakness, and my colleagues would question my competency. Dr. Lowery and I have an arrangement that has served both of us well: it's put his two daughters through Cambridge and enabled me to function without tablets or therapist visits."

John was mystified. "What exactly is this procedure?"

Mycroft's answer nearly sent the doctor into a faint.

"Electroconvulsive therapy."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta:** chasingriver
> 
> **Note:** Potential TW for non-invasive medical procedure.

Although not a psychiatrist, John Watson knew about the controversy surrounding ECT. Some doctors lauded it as a quick-acting miracle for difficult cases while others decried it as archaic and unreliable in its efficacy. No medical authority could explain exactly how it worked to treat mental illness either. That bothered John more than anything.

"You can't be serious," he breathed.

"I assure you that I am."

For a moment John was too stunned to continue. Then he stammered, "Y-you're telling me you've been treated with ECT before?"

"Twice. The first time was in 2002. The second was three years ago. Not long before we met." Mycroft laced his fingers tightly together and gazed out the window into the back garden, where three armed bodyguards patrolled. "John, I love you, and I appreciate how worrying this must be. But I must inform you that my decision has been made. I will be seeing Dr. Lowery at ten. If you would rather not accompany me, I shall understand."

Not even depression could soften the iron will of Mycroft Holmes, it seemed. His blue eyes shifted from the window to John, assessing the doctor's reaction.

John had always accepted that he'd never know everything about Mycroft's past or even his present. The elder Holmes was the shadow side of the British government, responsible for activities and projects that outsiders could never learn about and live. But nothing could have prepared John for discovering that Mycroft's singular brain had been assaulted by 240 to 400 volts of electricity- at his own direction.

John wanted to argue, to remind him that ECT, while not the medically sanctioned torture of fifty years ago, was mainly a treatment of last resort for bipolar disorder and drug-resistant depression. The known risks were potentially catastrophic: diminished learning ability, permanent loss of some memories, and shock-induced heart complications. But Mycroft would already be aware of all that. Unlike Sherlock, he rarely rushed headlong into danger zones.

"How many treatments have you actually received?" John finally asked.

"Six in total. Three the first time, and another three the second. In both instances I improved greatly after the third session, so no more were necessary."

Although upset, John couldn't help but be curious from a medical perspective. "And you had no adverse effects?"

"I was quite uncomfortable each time I woke up, but experienced no memory loss or cognitive impairment. The rapid elevation in mood was remarkable. Dr. Lowery has a theory that the shocks serve the same purpose as antidepressant tablets. The way that the brain processes mood-regulating chemicals is altered for the better."

"God, Mycroft." Objectively speaking, John knew that ECT would not alter Mycroft's personality, his _essence_. He would not wake up a different man. But what John realized from a scientific perspective and what he feared as a loving partner were two different things. He wanted to argue and plead and dissuade until his throat bled.

"I appreciate how distressing this must be for you," Mycroft continued. "But it really is the best way for me to handle this problem. I've already explained why I cannot afford to be treated pharmaceutically. And even if taking tablets would _not_ put my career and potentially my life at risk, I'm not at liberty to wait weeks for the dosage to take proper effect. My responsibilities are too immediate and urgent."

"Does… does Sherlock know?"

Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

"No," John sighed, "I didn't think so."

The elder Holmes placed his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. "The situation in Prague was apparently a nightmare even by my standards."

"Can you tell me why?"

Mycroft raised his eyes. John saw pain in them. "I had to kill a man. He was definitely spying against Britain. But I knew him for over twenty years, John. We joined MI6 together."

"That must have been terrible. But why did you have to be the one to kill him?"

"He was pointing a gun at me. Still…." Mycroft shook his head apparently puzzled. "This is, regrettably, not the first time I've been forced to kill someone who was once a friend. But it has never affected me like this. I was relatively fine at the time, but when I woke up in my hotel room yesterday morning, I was debilitated. Fortunately Anthea helped me conceal the worst of it from my associates."

John touched his hand. "Can I ask you what brought on your other two collapses?"

"Sherlock."

John remembered what Mycroft had said during their first meeting in the draughty warehouse. _I worry about him constantly_. Enough, he now knew, to erode Mycroft's steely resolve twice.

"Listen." He pushed his chair closer to Mycroft's and drew him close in a one-armed hug. "I'm upset, but I trust your judgment. You're not reckless, like Sherlock. I'm sorry if it sounds like I'm doubting you. But the risks involved with ECT worry me. If anything ever happened to you…. God, I don't even want to imagine it."

"I run greater risks going to the office every day. If anything ever gives me brain damage, it will be a bullet, not an electrode." Mycroft smiled to soften the harsh words. "I will not be harmed or altered in any way that is not beneficial."

"So basically your mind is made up. You intend to do this."

"Yes. The alternative is not an option. I will not stay like… this. I cannot, John."

The thought of watching a medical team transmit electricity into the brain of this powerful, brilliant man was agonising, but John's heart reminded him where his duty lay.

"Please accompany me to the hospital," Mycroft begged, guessing his thoughts for the hundredth time since they'd known each other. "You will, won't you?"

John struggled to speak over the lump in his throat. "Just try keeping me away."

******

Three hours later, John was standing in a small white room that glowed from the brilliance of the overhead light. Cold sweat pooled on his forehead and ran down his face despite the warmth. He hadn't been this terrified since Russian subversives had temporarily turned him into a human explosive device last summer.

He'd sent texts to Sherlock, Lestrade, and Alexei, telling them that he was accompanying Mycroft on a visit to the man's personal physician. There was no way he could tell them the truth, especially Sherlock. Even if Mycroft hadn't sworn him to secrecy, he didn't want to subject them to the same anxiety and dread that he was feeling now.

Anthea stood beside him, her Blackberry temporarily forgotten. Her poise and self-control were flawless, but John knew that she was afraid too. She swallowed rapidly and watched the medical team like a hawk. One hand absently stroked the jacket pocket where she carried her gun.

Mycroft was lying on a gurney in the middle of the room, an IV in his right hand and eyes unfocused. His responses were coherent whenever Dr. Mark Lowery, a kind-faced Welshman with blue-grey hair, spoke to him, but he was clearly groggy from the preliminary sedation. Monitor leads ran from his forehead and behind his ears to a machine which would monitor the seizure activity. When a nurse lowered the collar of his hospital gown and hooked him up to the heart monitor, he said mildly, "Careful, my dear. My partner is in the room."

John's own heart lurched, but he remained stoic. When Mycroft turned his head on the pillow and smiled at him, John mouthed the words, "Love you."

As Dr. Lowery and his assistant, Dr. Malone, worked with the anaesthesiologist and two nurses to get their patient and the equipment ready, John explained each step to Anthea, who seemed comforted by the insights. He found that clarifying a medical procedure brought his doctor persona to the fore and made him feel less helpless.

The anaesthesiologist opened a valve on the IV. A few seconds later Mycroft's eyes closed and he relaxed. A breathing mask was applied to his face while Dr. Lowery injected the contents of a large syringe into a tube on the back of Mycroft's hand. "That's succinycholine: it's a muscle relaxant," John told Anthea. "It paralyzes the muscles so they don't contract during the treatment and cause bones to fracture." He shuddered inside at the imagery but retained his composure.

When the elder Holmes began to twitch rapidly, Anthea's hand flew to her mouth. "It's all right: that's just an initial response to the relaxant," John assured her, although his eyes never left the heart monitor. Both of them exhaled slowly when Mycroft finally went limp.

A nurse opened Mycroft's mouth, inserted a flat rubber piece, and then gently pressed his jaws together to keep it in place. The anaesthesiologist began touching and stroking his closed eyelids and limp forearms. John explained, "The doctor's checking his reflexes to make sure that the paralytic has taken effect before the treatment starts."

The anaesthesiologist looked at Dr. Lowry. "We're ready."

Anthea turned white. Her hand grasped John's.

While the anaesthesiologist held the breathing mask in place and kept Mycroft's jaw closed against the mouth guard, Dr. Malone picked up two black-handled electrodes attached to the ECT machine by long, curled cords. He positioned one on the crown of Mycroft's head and the other on his right temple, and held them in place.

"Ready, Mark," Dr. Malone said.

Dr. Lowry turned to the ECT machine, checked its settings, and pressed a button. An eerie electronic trill filled the small room. After less than a second had passed, Dr. Malone stepped back, the lowered electrodes in his hands.

John clenched his teeth so tightly that pain shot up his jaw. He stared down at Mycroft's bare foot, which protruded from under the blanket, and observed that the toes were curled and quivering lightly. The seizure lasted just under a minute. Then Mycroft's foot relaxed and the machine ceased its unearthly noise.

Anthea released John's hand and wiped her face. They watched as the anaesthesiologist continued to hold the oxygen mask in place. "He won't be able to breathe unaided until the paralytic wears off, which usually doesn't take long," John said, grateful for this opportunity to talk so clinically.

Soon Mycroft began to stir. The anaesthesiologist removed the mouth guard and leaned forward. "Mr. Haines," he said gently (Mycroft had used a pseudonym to conceal his identity from Lowery's staff), "the treatment's over now. Can you open your eyes for me?"

John hurried to the gurney and joined the nurses in tapping and rubbing key muscles to gauge Mycroft's recovering reflexes. He stroked Mycroft's face, which was damp and warm beneath the overhead light, and said, "It's me. It's John. It's all over. Wake up now."

Mycroft shifted and groaned at his voice. His eyes fluttered open and he gazed at the faces hovering over him, looking vacant and confused.

"We're going to take you to a private recovery room," John told him. So far Mycroft's responses were normal for someone waking up from anaesthesia, but the doctor was desperate for confirmation that the man he loved had not been changed on an invisible level. "Nod if you understand me."

Mycroft's blue eyes slowly reflected his return to awareness. He licked his lips and whispered in a raspy voice, "Can't nod. Hurts."

"Your head hurts?"

"Yes." He winced at the overhead lights. "Need dark. Please, John."

"Okay. Let's get you moved." While the nurses raised the bed rails and Dr. Malone removed the monitor leads, John turned to Lowry. "I'm going to stay with him. Can you have someone fetch painkillers for his headache?"

"Of course, Dr. Watson." Lowry drew him aside and spoke in lower tones. "He's rallied very quickly every time the treatment's been applied, but he's usually ill afterward from the anaesthetic. I'll provide a Compazine dose for you to administer if necessary."

"Thanks," John said gratefully. Behind him, Anthea's Blackberry went off. She hurried out of the treatment room into the hallway to answer it.

Mycroft had dozed off again, seeking refuge from the pain in sleep. The nurses and Dr. Malone wheeled the bed and IV stand out of the room into the hallway. As he and Dr. Lowry followed, John saw Anthea standing near a window, speaking rapidly into her phone and looking stricken. When she saw him, she concluded the call.

"John, a word, please?" She kept her voice calm for the benefit of the medical team, but John could tell that she was frantic.

"He'll be in room 713," Lowry said. John nodded and hurried over to Anthea.

"What is it?"

"Is your phone off? Sherlock's been trying to reach you."

He fished it out of his pocket. "Battery's dead. What's happened?"

Mycroft's normally unflappable assistant trembled.

"It's Alexei. He's been taken."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta:** chasingriver

"Taken?" John echoed. His heart, which had finally calmed after the ECT treatment ended, resumed its furious pounding. "Oh, God. It must have been the Consortium. Mycroft will-"

"I wasn't taken," a third voice piped up. "I merely disappeared so I could come here."

John and Anthea spun around in unison, shoes squealing on the floor and gasping in shocked relief. Alexei stood at the other end of the corridor, near the lifts. His narrow face was solemn and his hands rested in the pockets of the Armani leather jacket John and Mycroft had bought him at Harrods.

"What the hell are you doing here?" John demanded as he and Anthea hurried toward the teenager.

"I'm worried about Mycroft."

John knew that Alexei had come into Mycroft's life so unexpectedly, and at such an advanced age mentally as well as physically, that the traditional parent-child formalities never took root. They were on a first-name basis, and Alexei's freedom was only curtailed by necessary security measures. This liberal indulgence bothered John almost as much as the obsessive vigilance that Mycroft used to maintain over his younger brother. All kids, in his opinion, needed to know their limits. When asked about it, the elder Holmes said quietly, "He's not Sherlock. I don't need to worry so much."

This little stunt had definitely changed that.

Anthea wasn't as reticent as her boss. She reached Alexei before John did, her lovely face tight with anger, and grasped the boy's upper arm. "This is unacceptable," she declared. "You've given everyone a fright."

Alexei stared down at the place where her fingers dug into his sleeve. John thought he looked surprised and _relieved_ : his eyes lowered and his assertiveness dropped several notches.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I will call Sherlock and Gregory and tell them I'm fine."

"No, I will do that while you explain yourself to John," Anthea said sharply. She released him and strode away a short distance, tapping at her Blackberry. "Then you're spending the rest of the weekend in your room."

"At Baker Street, it's technically John's room," Alexei said. He would have elaborated, but she turned around and favoured him with a glare that silenced him immediately.

John was both surprised and impressed: he was pretty sure that Anthea didn't have children, but she clearly knew how to handle them when they got out of line. Maybe she had younger siblings who'd forced her to play mother.

Something Alexei apparently needed right now.

John pointed to one of the plastic chairs that lined the corridor. Although desperate to rejoin Mycroft, this took priority. When Alexei sat, John crossed his arms and said, "I'm waiting."

"I knew where you were because I attached a GPS tracker to your coat last night. Before you left."

"What?" John rummaged in his pockets and patted his sides. "Where?"

"Under your collar."

"Damn." John found and extracted the small device, pricking his fingers on the pin in the process. As he pocketed it, he declared, "What were you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that Mycroft was drugged before he flew back to London yesterday."

That answer evaporated John's anger instantly. "What are you talking about?"

Alexei's eyes lit up, the way Sherlock's did when a deduction excited him. "After he fainted, when he was sitting on the sofa, he kept touching his right shoulder. Rubbing it. Didn't you notice?"

"No. What are you getting at?"

Unlike Mycroft, Alexei rarely got straight to the point. He was proud of his deductive skills, and enjoyed showing them off. It was another trait he and Sherlock shared. Normally John was an appreciative, even awestruck, audience, but not now. Not when he was anxious to reach Mycroft's side before the anaesthetic wore off.

"I do the same thing whenever I'm vaccinated. Did you happen to see him with his shirt off later?"

"Yes, but I wasn't exactly looking for needle marks, Alexei."

"I think we should do that now." The teenager stood up so quickly that his auburn hair –a genetic gift from his father- fell across his face. When John hesitated, he exclaimed, "John, you _know_ that something was done to him. That's why you're at this hospital, isn't it?"

John felt torn. How do you tell a boy- no matter how intelligent- that his father had undergone electroconvulsive therapy for severe depression? Especially when said father wanted his affliction kept secret? But even if John didn't come right out and say it, Alexei would know the moment he saw Mycroft unconscious in a hospital bed, traces of gel on his right temple and medical personnel monitoring him. Realizing that he had no choice, he finally said, "Come with me. I'll take you to him."

As they walked down the corridor, John checking the number on each door, Anthea caught up to them.

"I've told Sherlock and Mr. Lestrade that we'll bring Alexei back to Baker Street in a couple of hours," she said. "They're not very pleased with you at the moment, young man."

Alexei just lowered his head and nodded. _It's like he's grateful for the structure_ , John thought. It was also likely that the boy missed his mother's loving discipline. Elena had been separated from her son once the Consortium learned that she had terminal cancer, but before then, she must have imposed rules and limits. Mycroft had to learn to do that. Alexei may not have been Sherlock, but he wasn't a seasoned adult either.

When they reached room 713, they found Mycroft up to his chin in blankets, sleeping soundly. A middle-aged nurse sat in a plastic chair beside his bed, making notes in a chart. She looked up as they came in.

"He's still asleep, Dr. Watson," she said, standing up and setting the chart on the side table. "If he's nauseous when he wakes up, there's a Compazine injection in the drawer. Dr. Lowry left it for you."

Alexei went straight to Mycroft's bedside and scanned the relaxed face and blanket-covered body. Keeping one eye on him, John said to the nurse, "Thank you. I'll take over from here."

"Dr. Lowry said he'll check on Mr. Haines in an hour. If you need him before then, have someone at the nurse's station locate him."

"I will. Thank you."

When she left, Alexei slowly and reverently pulled the blankets down to Mycroft's waist. He lifted up the sleeve of the thin blue hospital gown and peered closely at the sleeping man's right shoulder. A second later his green eyes widened in alarm.

"John, come here. I was right. There's a puncture mark."

John hurried over with Anthea close behind. Sure enough, the skin was discoloured and slightly swollen around a tiny puncture. Estimating that the mark was no more than two days old, John turned to Anthea, who looked as worried as he felt. "Do you know if he had any vaccinations while in Prague? To prepare him for a Top Secret trip I'm not supposed to know about?"

She shook her head. "No, absolutely not. He'd have had me schedule it for him."

Alexei's eyes were glued to Mycroft's still face. "I know what he's been treated with here. ECT." He bit his pale lip. "I can tell because I've had it performed on me too."

"What?" John exclaimed.

Alexei nodded slowly as he raised the blankets back to Mycroft's shoulders. "When the Consortium separated me from Mum… after she became ill… I kept trying to escape. A dodgy psychiatrist recommended a round of ECT treatments. They wanted to wipe my memory of her illness and tell me that she'd died during a mission. So I would resign myself to staying there."

John's jaw dropped.

"They did it to me twice," the boy said bitterly. "Then stronger medical minds prevailed and told my keepers that ECT at my age could damage my cognitive development. They certainly didn't want that, so they settled for keeping me under lock and key. I'm positive that some damage was done, because I've suffered from migraines ever since."

John knew about the migraines, but learning their probable source sickened him. "That's… that's inhuman."

"Yes, it is." Alexei's voice lowered to a soft growl. "And one day there shall be a reckoning."

Before the conversation could continue, Mycroft shifted on the bed and moaned.

Anthea touched his shoulder while John grasped his hand and took his pulse. "Mr. Holmes? Sir? You're all right."

Mycroft swallowed convulsively. His complexion turned a horrible shade of green. "Sick…."

John grabbed the blue plastic basin on the side table. "Over here," he said gently.

Keeping his eyes closed against the painful influx of light, the elder Holmes was violently sick. When he finally stopped heaving and lay back down, John carried the basin into the adjacent toilet, emptied it, and came back with two wet facecloths. He laid one, which had been run under cold water, across Mycroft's forehead and wiped his mouth and face with the second, which was so warm that it steamed.

"Mycroft," he said softly, "do you remember where you are and why you're here?"

"Yes. St. Thomas Hospital. I came here to be treated by Dr. Lowry." Mycroft sounded frail. "Please, John, turn off the light."

Anthea removed her shoes so that the click of high heels would not aggravate her boss's temporarily heightened senses, and padded to the light switch in her stockinged feet. When the room plunged into dimness, a solemn-faced Alexei went to the window and drew the curtains.

John opened the side table's drawer. "I'm giving you some Compazine for the nausea," he said, taking the pre-filled syringe out and injecting the contents into the IV port. "I imagine your head hurts too?"

"Horribly."

John pulled the drawer open wider, and saw a sealed package containing two paracetamol tablets. As he opened it and poured water from the pitcher into a glass, he was once again grateful for the professional persona that always took over in a hospital setting. The puncture mark on Mycroft's arm provided an alternative explanation for the sudden and mysterious onset of depression, and if their suspicions were correct, it could only mean one thing.

Danger ahead.

Alexei hovered near the window, clearly reluctant to let his father know he was there. There didn't appear to be any danger of that happening: Mycroft actually tugged on the damp facecloth until it covered his closed eyes as well as his forehead.

John placed the tablets on his tongue and helped him take small sips of water through a straw. The doctor observed that his pulse was normal and he appeared to be coherent, although still groggy.

A nurse appeared in the doorway. She was young and attractive, with long red hair and a body that made her uniform tight in all the right places.

"Dr. Watson?"

"Yes?" At one time- before he fell in love with Mycroft- John would have tried to chat her up. Now he only reacted to her charms with weary appreciation. Alexei wasn't as subdued: his eyes fell to her chest and stayed there.

"Dr. Lowery would like to see you in his office. I'll show you the way."

"All right." He turned back to the elder Holmes and touched his hand. "Mycroft, I'll be back in a moment. Anthea will stay here with you."

There was no response. John gingerly lifted the edge of the facecloth from his eyes, and saw that they were closed. Tenderness flooded through him, along with a protective impulse so strong that his adrenaline levels spiked. If Alexei's suspicions were correct and Mycroft's suffering had been induced by someone with a dark agenda, the guilty party would swiftly and painfully find out that John was a soldier as well as a doctor. He would kill to protect those he loved.

When he followed the angel-faced nurse into the corridor, Alexei followed.

"You're new to nursing, aren't you?" the boy asked her.

She flashed him a pleasant but surprised smile. "It's my first day. How did you know?"

"Your shoes." He pointed at her white stiletto heels. "You won't be able to stay on your feet for hours in those."

"I know. I have another pair in my locker." She winked. "I just like making a memorable first impression."

"Clearly."

Dr. Lowry's office was in a remote section of the wing. Knowing that Mycroft trusted the man, John intended to tell him about the puncture mark. They'd have to do a blood test: whatever the elder Holmes had been injected with was probably still in his system and therefore detectable.

John saw Mark Lowry the moment he and Alexei followed the nurse into the office, but the doctor wasn't at his desk. He was lying on the floor beneath it, unconscious and bleeding from a wound behind his right ear.

John was a veteran of too many scenes like this to react the way most people would: confront the nurse and demand an explanation. Instead, he curled his right hand into a fist and whirled around to punch the assailant or assailants that were surely behind him by now. Beside him, Alexei bellowed in surprise and fury.

"Let go of me!"

There was a soft thud that sounded like a knee hitting a crotch, and a man grunted in pain.

John wasn't so lucky. Before he could strike, something fast and solid landed against his left eye, knocking him to the floor. He tumbled against the desk and tried to retaliate, but pain erupted again, this time in the side of his head, and then all was dark and silent.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta:** chasingriver

The instant he opened his eyes, John cursed himself for drinking so much. His head throbbed, his mouth was cotton-dry, and his limbs refused to work in real time. He smelled like sweat and damp fabric. He didn’t want to imagine what he must look like.

_Mycroft will kill me._

Mycroft. It all came back to him in a rush- the ECT treatment at St. Thomas, the busty nurse who’d lured him and Alexei into an ambush, and the heavies who’d pummelled him until he felt like an overripe apple.

Alexei!

John struggled upright. Pain and dizziness nearly flattened him again, but he braced his hands against the mattress and forced his aching eyes to stay open.

He had been placed on an antique four-poster bed with a mattress the size of a soccer field. Its thick velvet curtains were closed at the sides but open at the end, letting in enough light for him to see that Alexei was beside him, lying in the recovery position.

John checked his pulse. Reassured by the results, he gently manipulated Alexei’s ribcage and limbs. There were no broken bones or visible wounds, but the boy was a disaster from head to toe: his Armani jacket was badly creased, dirt streaked his face and hands, and bits of straw clung to his hair.

It was almost comical.  They were on a luxurious bed in a room that befitted an eighteenth century nobleman: from his vantage point, John could see clean stone walls and flooring, velvet-upholstered furniture, oil paintings, and a large fireplace with an open hearth. But both of them looked and smelled as if they’d arrived here in a sheep car.

John inched carefully to the edge of the bed and parted the side curtain just wide enough to peer out. He saw more furniture – an antique desk and chair, bookshelf stocked with leather-bound volumes, and a bedside table with a porcelain-based lamp – as well as a solid wooden door. Unless someone lurked on the other side of the bed, they were alone.

He was trying to decide what to do next when Alexei stirred. Closing the curtain, John turned back to the boy and touched his shoulder.

“It’s John. Easy now. You probably feel as horrible as I do, but neither of us appears to be hurt.”

Alexei opened his eyes. “John?”

“Yes. It’s me.”

The teenager stared blearily about. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll likely find out soon.”

Alexei struggled to sit up. As John helped him, the boy said in a clearer voice, “We’ve just arrived, obviously. And we were brought here in boxes.”

“How can you tell?”

“Your right shoulder is elevated above your left and your shoes are newly scuffed at the toe, which indicates that you’ve recently been in a container too small for your height. We’re both covered with dirt and straw.” Alexei sniffed his jacket sleeve. “Furniture polish. We were brought here as part of a crated furniture shipment.”

Satisfied that the teenager was all right for now, John’s immediate concern flashed to another Holmes. “Mycroft,” he exclaimed, reaching for the curtain again. “Did they-”

“They didn’t take him.”

John hesitated, fingers clutching the fabric. “How can you be sure?”

“Strategically unlikely because it would be too big of a risk. With us out of the room, Anthea would never leave him unattended. They’re in the general area of the hospital, and she’s armed.” Alexei frowned. “I was right. Mycroft was drugged before he returned to London. To create an artificial state of depression.”

John struggled to follow, but his headache and anxiety made thinking difficult. “But what does that have to do with us being kidnapped?”

“Whoever is responsible is not my father’s enemy. If their agents got close enough to drug him, it would have been just as easy to kill him. Their goal was to kidnap us.”

“The Consortium,” John whispered. “But no. They’d have killed Mycroft if they had the chance.”

“I agree.” Alexei had the intent, faraway look of a Holmes tackling a puzzle. John could almost hear his brain at work, testing pieces for compatibility and interpreting the results. “Our abductor planned things perfectly. They struck at a time when Mycroft’s personal security team was limited to Anthea alone.”

John swallowed. “He- he didn’t want anyone he didn’t trust implicitly to know what he was being treated for and how.”

Alexei nodded sagely. “His competency would have been questioned otherwise. But someone outside his circle not only knew how he’d have an onset of severe depression treated, but where and with which doctor. They also knew that you would go with him and that I’d notice something amiss and not be able to stay away.” A small smile tugged at the corners of the boy’s mouth. “Clever. I’m looking forward to meeting them.”

He looked and sounded exactly the way Sherlock had when the detective first learned of Moriarty’s existence. John remembered well the reluctant admiration and headstrong desire for confrontation. Sherlock had been like an over-caffeinated greyhound: all nervous energy and so desperate to chase the rabbit that he rarely saw the pitfalls ahead.

“Listen, Alexei,” John said. “Take some advice from an ex-soldier. Don’t go looking for trouble: it always finds you soon enough.” _Especially if your last name is Holmes_ , he added mentally. “Focus on figuring out a way for us to get out of here.”

Before he could say anything else, the door opened. Multiple footsteps crossed the carpet over the stone floor. A moment later the bedside curtain nearest the door was drawn aside.

The well-dressed man who stared down at them was in his mid-forties, with prematurely grey hair like Lestrade’s. He was thin to the point of being skeletal, leaving him with bulging eyes and a pinched expression. But since the two men flanking him were mountain-sized and had shoulder holsters bulging under their suits, he didn’t need to worry about his fragility.

“Dr. Watson. Alexei,” he greeted. His voice was soft- barely above a whisper- and had an American accent. “My name is John Mayberry. I apologize for the condition you found yourselves in when you woke up. My men were unnecessarily rough.”

“Have you killed them yet?” Alexei asked.

Mayberry’s eyes widened a fraction. “What makes you think I’d do that?”

“This entire scheme was plotted by a clever man but carried out by simpletons. John and I were brought here in a deplorable state.” Alexei held up his filthy hands. “Yet instead of being tossed in a dungeon or basement cell, we’re placed in relatively luxurious accommodations. The people you hired didn’t know what your plans for us were; otherwise they wouldn’t have brought us to you in such a state. Therefore, they’re not part of your regular entourage.”

Mayberry grinned broadly. “Remarkable. Go on. What else?”

“You wouldn’t send people you didn’t trust implicitly to kidnap the partner and son of Mycroft Holmes unless you intended to cover your trail by killing them afterward.”

The thin man laughed and clapped his hands. “Incredible. You’re as intelligent as your file indicates, young man. And the answer to your question is no. They’re presently downstairs, in the old servants’ hall.” He paused significantly before adding. “Enjoying their last meal.”

John shifted on the mattress until he was between Alexei and the newcomers. “What do you want with us?”

“With you personally, Dr. Watson? Nothing.” Mayberry’s watery grey eyes shifted to Alexei. “It’s young Mr. Nowak here whom I have business with.”

“Nowak-Holmes,” the teenager corrected sharply.

“Nowak-Holmes. Of course. I’m sure you’d both like to be more comfortable, so there’s been a hot bath drawn for each of you in a room down the hall. You’ll also find a change of clothes. At six, one of my staff will bring dinner.”

The show of hospitality didn’t reassure John. “What do you want with Alexei?”

Mayberry regarded the boy with visible reverence. “He’s going to save my life.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta:** chasingriver

"You've got to be joking," John said. "If you want someone to do you a _favour_ , never mind save your life, you don't kidnap them and treat them like prisoners."

Mayberry took in the room with a broad gesture. "Does this look like a prison cell to you, Dr. Watson?"

"Depends. Let me walk out of here and I'll give you an answer." Receiving no response, he sighed. "No. Didn't think so. Out with it then. What do you want Alexei to do, specifically?"

"Whatever it is, it's clearly not something I'd do voluntarily," the teenager commented. "That's why you took John too, isn't it? To ensure my compliance."

"Right again, young man. It pains me to say this, but refusal to cooperate will result in grave consequences for Dr. Watson." Then Mayberry smiled, as if to soften the threat. "I'm sure it won't come to that, though. In two weeks, this will all be over and we can get on with our lives."

John didn't believe him. But for now he and Alexei were prisoners, and he felt too wretched for more verbal combat. He ached all over, and the prospect of a hot bath was almost as good as freedom.

"I'll leave you two to freshen up and settle in. I have to see to the 'departure' of my temporary guests." Mayberry checked his watch. John's heart sank as he realized that their abductors- men who'd blindly obeyed orders- were entering the last hour of their lives. "Tomorrow we'll talk about what I expect from you, Alexei."

Then he left.

The two bulky minders approached the bed. "Follow us," one of them ordered.

Alexei's response surprised John. "Very well," the teenager replied, sounding uncharacteristically meek. He crawled to the foot of the bed, slid his feet to the cold stone floor, and stood. "Let's go, John. We're both filthy and I'm getting hungry. We'll find out what this is all about soon enough."

John had been living with one Holmes and in a relationship with another long enough to know phony compliance when he saw it. Alexei's voice and bearing were docile, but his eyes gleamed faintly with cunning as they were escorted into the hall. The boy's lightning-fast glances took in every closed door and open entryway, memorizing everything for later examination and analysis.

John didn't follow suit: his headache had developed into a raging migraine, and all he wanted was a warm soak, followed by darkness and quiet. He shuffled along, content to let Alexei pinpoint a future avenue of escape while he tried to ignore the pain.

The guards led them into a spacious chamber that radiated moisture and heat. Like the bedroom and hallway, it had stone walls, a high ceiling, and vintage furnishings.

_We're in a castle or ancestral home that's older than Lestrade's jokes_ , John thought dully. _But where?_

Two large copper tubs stood side by side before a glowing fire. They were filled with steaming water and had thick white towels draped over the side. Too desperate for relief to feel embarrassed, John pulled off his ruined clothes, threw them aside, and climbed shakily into one of the tubs.

"Any chance I could have some paracetamol?" he asked as he shifted so that he wasn't facing the fire's glare. The roiling in his stomach had developed into full-blown nausea, making him bite back a groan. When the guards didn't respond immediately, he added, "If not, I hope you don't mind cleaning up vomit. Headache's getting worse."

One of the men made a disgusted face and told his partner, "Be back shortly."

"Yeah, fine." The other man had a soft Eastern European accent that contrasted with his cohort's rough Scottish burr.

John closed his eyes and listened to Alexei undress and climb into the other tub. He concentrated on breathing through his nose and letting the water relax him. His thoughts turned to Mycroft, who'd suffered an equally excruciating headache after the ECT.

_Mycroft must know by now that we've been kidnapped. Dear God, what he must be going through._

His heart rate accelerated, sending a vicious jab of pain through his left temple. Wincing, he brought a hot, wet hand to the back of his neck and rubbed the tight muscles there.

When Alexei remained silent, John cracked his eyes open and glanced over at the boy, who was reclining in the tub and watching the fire. "You okay?" he asked throatily.

"I'm thinking about my mother." Alexei swallowed. "I miss her."

That comment was so unexpected that John opened his eyes wider- and promptly closed them when the firelight assaulted his vision. He wanted to urge the boy not to be so candid around the remaining guard, but felt too unsteady for a potential confrontation.

"I don't think she expected to die of old age," Alexei continued. "But cancer? It was the last thing she would have anticipated."

John would have nodded in sympathy if his throbbing head had allowed it. Elena Nowak had been a fighter: for her beliefs and for her son. She had crossed dangerous men to champion both, only to be betrayed in the end by her own body. No one deserved to die from cancer, but in Elena's case the blow had been especially ironic.

John knew that Alexei missed her, but the teenager had not spoken of her in months. Why now, when they were prisoners under close surveillance?

Alexei let out a shaky sigh and said something in Russian. Whatever it was, it got a reaction out of the remaining guard. The man, who was in his mid-twenties and had wavy, ginger-coloured hair, left his post by the doorway and approached Alexei.

"When did your mother die?" he asked.

"Last year."

A strange expression flitted across the guard's face. His next words were in Russian. Alexei replied in English, "Often, yes."

Something was afoot. John struggled to pay attention despite his percolating brain. Before the conversation could continue, the other guard returned with a bottle of painkillers and Styrofoam cup of water. When the man saw his partner standing beside Alexei's tub, he asked warily, "What's going on?"

Alexei reached for a block of soap on the tub shelf. "I was asking your friend what was taking so long for John's tablets. Perhaps efficiency isn't your strong point."

The Scotsman glared. "Watch it, kid," he warned as he handed John the water and pills with the bedside manner of a Hun.

"I think you're the one who needs to watch it. Mr. Mayberry is disposing of some temporary staff as we speak." Alexei lathered himself up, filling the room with the smell of patchouli. "You'd better hope that he doesn't give you a bad performance review one day."

"You shut your mouth."

"Alexei," John groaned. "Not now." _Not when I'm in no shape to stop him from drowning you._

The teenager shrugged. "Fine. I'm sorry, John."

The Russian guard resumed his former post by the door, but continued to watch Alexei with a troubled and intrigued expression.

John swallowed two of the extra-strength tablets and sank to his chin in the water. Mayberry said they had two weeks before his use for them would be over. Closing his eyes, he silently willed the Holmes brothers and Lestrade to hurry.

******

Greg Lestrade edged closer to Sherlock on the car seat, not trusting the younger Holmes to wait until the vehicle stopped before vaulting out.

"Sherlock," he said gently, "I'm worried too. But you won't be much use to John or Alexei if you break your damned leg."

The younger Holmes kept staring into the distance, growing more agitated as Mycroft's Knightsbridge home appeared. "Can't this car go any faster?" he snapped at the chauffeur.

"We're nearly there, Mr. Holmes."

"Nearly is not good enough! Hurry it up."

Lestrade caught the man's eye in the mirror and made a sympathetic face. Like Sherlock, he was desperate to learn what exactly had happened. _Unlike_ Sherlock, he refused to vent his anxiety by making someone else miserable.

When the sedan stopped in front of the stately building, Sherlock threw the door open and bounded up the stone steps three at a time. After apologizing to the chauffeur, Lestrade ran after him.

Anthea met them in the entrance, her face pale and drawn. "Mr. Holmes will be so relieved to see you both."

Sherlock ignored her and ran for the staircase leading to the bedrooms. Lestrade asked, "What can you tell me?"

"John and Alexei left Mr. Holmes' hospital room with a woman who appeared to be a nurse," she answered as they hurried after Sherlock. "When they didn't come back after an hour, I sent someone to see what was delaying them."

"And?"

"The doctor who supposedly summoned them was found unconscious in his office. There were signs of a struggle. The nurse is apparently not employed at the hospital."

"Did you check the hospital's security cameras?"

"All down at the time John and Alexei disappeared."

As they neared Mycroft's bedroom, the shouting began. The two bodyguards stationed at the door didn't even turn their heads: Lestrade figured that they were used to fraternal screaming matches by now.

"Out with it, Mycroft! How could you have let this happen to them?"

"Christ," Lestrade muttered.

Mycroft was lying on his enormous four-poster bed, looking alarmingly diminished. He wore a purple quilted robe and reclined on a stack of pillows like a dying feudal lord. Sherlock hovered over him, shouting and gesticulating wildly.

"Answer me, you idiot! What happened? Where are they? What have you done to get them back?"

Mycroft didn't answer. He seemed dazed and in shock, which alarmed Lestrade more than Sherlock's hysterics. He'd seen Mycroft navigate crises before: the elder Holmes turned into a commando, barking orders, disappearing in his car in at all hours, coming back with the occasional bruised knuckle or blood-speckled shirt. Sherlock's shouting should have unleashed a torrent of cold and angry recriminations. But all Mycroft did was stare out the window.

"It's my fault," he said in a low voice.

"Yes, that much is blatantly obvious!" Sherlock yelled. "But why aren't you getting out of bed and doing something?"

"Things _are_ being done, Sherlock," Anthea said coldly.

He ignored her. "How can you just lie there like a lazy arse when John and Alexei are missing?"

Ordinarily, Lestrade would have intervened by that point, but he wanted to know the answer to that question too. He was actually tempted to check Mycroft for a pulse. Anthea had said on the phone that the elder Holmes had gone to the hospital to be checked over after his fainting spell the night before, but something about that story didn't sit right. Mycroft Holmes wouldn't go to a NHS hospital for a mere physical or even blood work. He had a private physician who came to his home.

Sherlock's accusation seemed to rekindle a spark of life. "I am being tortured too," Mycroft said.

"You deserve it!"

"I agree."

"You agree? A bit late, isn't it?" Sherlock bent down until their faces were inches apart. "The stupidest thing John ever did was fall in love with you. He's been a walking target ever since."

Lestrade opened his mouth to protest, but he saw a flash in Mycroft's eyes that meant only one thing.

Danger.

No one in the room saw the elder Holmes move, but the crack of palm against cheek was sharp and loud, like a rifle shot. Sherlock reeled backward, pressing his gloved hand to his face while Mycroft sat up straight, face a mask of sluggish fury.

"How dare you," he hissed. "What would you know about love, you ignorant child?"

The brothers stared at each other. Then Sherlock leaped on the bed, fists flying and swearing like a lorry driver.

"Fucking useless wanker!"

The gratuitous profanity warned Lestrade that Sherlock had gone off the deep end. He'd heard the younger Holmes shout at his brother in the past, but the insults were usually razor-sharp and even funny (unless you were on the receiving end). _These_ exclamations were desperate and panic-stricken.

The former DI had seen Sherlock this hysterical only once before: when the young detective was detoxing from cocaine for the last time. He'd helped the clinic staff hold Sherlock down as the latter kicked and sweated and screamed for the drug he believed he needed to survive. Now the younger Holmes was struggling and indirectly crying out for the safe return of two people who were more precious to him than cocaine had ever been.

Lestrade joined the bodyguards in rushing toward Sherlock, but Mycroft beat them to it. The elder Holmes threw Sherlock face down on the tall mattress and twisted his arm behind his back. The speed and suddenness of the move stopped everyone in their tracks.

"I'm so sorry," Mycroft whispered in his brother's ear. "For letting this happen. For hitting you. For what I just said."

Sherlock stilled.

"You were right. I'm not a safe man to care about. But neither are you." He swallowed. "Since he met us, 'normal' is only a word in the dictionary for him. John's a saint, Sherlock, and we are lucky that he stays with us."

Anthea gestured for the bodyguards to leave. They did, closing the door behind them.

"And Alexei." Mycroft nearly choked. "I never knew how badly I wanted a family until I learned about him. I thought he'd want to stay safe after the life he's led. I never thought he would… would act like we did at his age."

Lestrade assumed that he was referring to the teenager's crafty escape from Baker Street. Alexei had told Sherlock that he was going downstairs to visit Mrs. Hudson, but when she brought a tea tray up an hour later, they learned that she hadn't seen him at all that morning. Pandemonium had reigned until Sherlock received a call from Anthea letting them know that Alexei was safe.

Temporarily, as it turned out.

Sherlock remained silent. When Mycroft relaxed his hold, the younger Holmes pulled free and sprang to his knees, face white and eyes turning red around the edges. Lestrade could almost feel his fear.

"Please, Mycroft," he begged, grabbing his brother's sleeve. "Do whatever it takes to get them back. I'll help you. Just tell me what you need me to do."

The elder Holmes drew his brother close. "Here's what you can do. When we find out who abducted John and Alexei, you can hold them down while I put a bullet in their brain."

Even though he wasn't the aforementioned target, hearing those words made Lestrade shiver.


	8. Chapter 8

The tablets and hot soak didn’t get rid of John’s migraine completely, but the pain subsided enough to let him eat a light meal in their chamber after the bath. He picked carefully at a baked potato while Alexei watched with sympathy and concern.

“Just go to bed after you’ve finished,” the boy said. “With two armed men outside our locked door, I assure you that we won’t be escaping tonight.”

He sounded so much like Mycroft just then that John looked up from his plate. The glow from a nearby lamp played on Alexei’s hair, making the bronze highlights shimmer.

Exactly the way Mycroft’s did when exposed to light.

“You should be more careful what you say, Alexei. The room is probably monitored.”

“It isn’t, actually.” Alexei picked up the salt shaker and, to John’s confusion, spread a fine layer of its contents on the table. “At least not that I can detect. This place appears to be too old to support a surveillance system more modern than an ear at the door.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“I may be wrong, but I don’t think so.” The teenager ran his right forefinger through the salt, forming letters.

_No cameras, but listening devices likely._

After making an inane comment about being exhausted, John swept the words away with his palm, brushing off the fine crystals that stuck to his skin, and wrote back.

_The Russian bloke. What was that about?_

Keeping up the neutral verbal conversation, Alexei erased John’s writing and replied.

_His shirt was partly unbuttoned and I saw a tattoo on his chest._

_A tattoo? Of what?_

_Breast cancer ribbon. With Russian word for ‘Mother’._

So that was why Alexei had mentioned Elena out of the blue like that. The boy was making at least one of their guards see him as human, not a depersonalized asset.

 _He’s also afraid of other guard,_ Alexei continued. _Acts nervous around him. Not committed to this scheme._

Daring to hope, John responded: _You think he might help us?_

_Strong possibility._

The doorknob turned. Alexei swept the salt onto the rug, whose cream-coloured fibres easily concealed the grains. The glowering Scotsman came in while his Russian associate lingered in the doorway.

“I’m sure you figured this out already, but I’ll say it anyway,” he growled. “Mr. Mayberry’s order is that you be treated like guests. But the only thing missing from these trays had better be food.”

“We assumed the cutlery would be counted afterward,” Alexei replied. “Since there’s only two of everything to be accounted for, I’m sure your math skills will suffice.”

The Russian guard turned his face away, but not before John saw a smirk. The Scotsman wasn’t as amused. His hands gripped John’s tray so hard that the contents rattled.

“Little Soviet bastard. If you were my kid, I’d drown you.”

“I’m not Russian, I’m Polish. Half. And if I were your son, I’d drown myself.”

For a single, dangerous moment John thought the man would drop everything and go for Alexei. He still felt wretched, but enough adrenaline now flooded his body to let him spring to the boy’s defence if necessary.

“Gary,” the Russian man called, bringing the exchange to a halt despite his obvious enjoyment of it. “They’ll wonder what’s keeping us.”

Gary reluctantly relaxed. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, dumping the contents of both trays onto one before stacking them and carrying them to the doorway. “Your insults are bloody weak anyway, kid. I get better at the pub.”

“From the ladies?”

Gary, who had stepped out into the corridor, whirled around. Before he could say or do anything else, the Russian closed the door. A moment later a key turned in the lock.

John slowly released the breath he had been holding. “Alexei, you shouldn’t bait that bloke so much. He could break you in half and I’m not so sure I’d be able to stop him.”

Alexei rose from the table, went over to the mohair sofa next to the hearth, and stretched out. “He’ll do nothing of the sort,” he replied, rolling onto his back and gazing at the ceiling. “He may be stupid, but he doesn’t want to die painfully.”

John shook his head. “Yeah, well, neither do we.”

******

“Something’s seriously wrong with your brother,” Lestrade said.

Under normal circumstances Sherlock would have milked that comment for all it was worth. But the younger man only sat beside him in the cab and stared straight ahead, expression stone-like.

“I know,” he said.

They were en route to an East London location where the core members of the detective’s youthful ‘homeless network’ usually congregated at this time of night. Sherlock wanted to find out if any of them had been near St. Thomas at the time of the abductions, as they often scrounged in hospital rubbish bins for uneaten, packaged food. It was a long shot, but all they had to work with at the moment.

After the brawl on the bed, Mycroft had retained his iron poise long enough to give Anthea instructions for the team analyzing camera footage from the hospital’s vicinity. “Tell them to look for departing service vehicles relevant to the medical profession,” he ordered. Then he rolled onto his back and fell asleep –or passed out– in front of everyone. Anthea made a comment about heavy painkillers for a headache, but Sherlock didn’t look convinced.

Twenty minutes later, speeding in a cab through London, he was still unnaturally quiet.

This verbal anorexia worried the former policeman almost as much as John and Alexei’s disappearance. When Sherlock ‘knew’ something, he practically begged to have the entire explanation urged out of him so he could preen over his brilliance and insult those of lesser intelligence.  Not now.

“I’m listening,” Lestrade prodded.

“Mycroft’s affliction did not come on naturally,” the younger Holmes finally said. “When you went downstairs with Anthea to let the extra security detail in, he told me that he found a suspicious mark on his arm while showering.”

“A puncture mark, you mean? From a needle?”

Sherlock nodded. “Just so. Whoever took John and Alexei wanted Mycroft disabled just long enough to make their move. But there’s one aspect of the scenario that I can’t stop thinking about.” He crossed his legs and tapped his fingers nervously on his knee. “I believe I’ve reached the correct conclusion but talking aloud helps me think better. Neither John nor the skull is here, so you will have to do.”

“Thanks.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, the detective continued. “All surveillance cameras immediately surrounding the hospital were down for the entire time that Mycroft was there, limiting all saved footage to at least a block away in each direction.”

“The abductors likely arranged it. To cover their escape.”

“Doubtful. A manoeuvre like that would be beyond the ability of most.”

“Are you sure?” Lestrade eyed Sherlock carefully. “Criminal masterminds do exist, you know. Moriarty could have accomplished a trick like that easily.”

Sherlock turned on him, nostrils flaring. “I know they exist. And Moriarty is _dead._ ”

“All I’m saying is that we’re probably dealing with someone just as clever. Don’t get stroppy with me: it doesn’t help things.”

After a brief but intense silence, Sherlock said, “I think Mycroft ordered them turned off.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. Those cameras are Mycroft’s protection when he goes out in public. Why would he leave himself so vulnerable?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions. And I think the answer is that he didn’t want there to be any record of him going into that hospital. Which, coincidentally, focuses on treating mental disorders.”

Lestrade hadn’t bothered to give the choice of hospital much thought. But now that he did, he remembered the many times he had escorted mentally disturbed individuals to St. Thomas. Some had been positively psychotic, kicking and screaming and requiring both physical and chemical restraint. Others were lucid and mortified by their predicament, begging him not to inform their families.

No one wanted to be seen going into a psychiatric facility unless they worked there or were too psychotic to care.

“Mycroft also has a plaster on the back of his hand,” Sherlock continued. “It wasn’t there when he visited the flat yesterday.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

The younger Holmes gazed out the side window. “No. Because he would probably have lied and I’d be forced to deduce it myself anyway. I believe he underwent a procedure at the hospital. One requiring intravenous sedation.”

“An operation,” Lestrade mused, struggling to make sense of it. “But if so, why would he lie about it? Nothing dodgy about that.”

“An outpatient procedure in a mental hospital that requires sedation. _Think_ , Lestrade.” 

“Well, he definitely wasn’t lobotomized,” the former DI said, fighting back irritation. “If it were anyone else I’d say shock treatment, but-” When Sherlock lowered his head, he stopped. “Wait a minute now. Surely you don’t think-”

It was quite clear that Sherlock did.  He drew a ragged breath, clasped his long fingers together, and said, “It can’t be the first time either.”

Lestrade was stunned. He’d worked with Sherlock Holmes long enough to accept that the consulting detective was rarely wrong in his conclusions. But this particular deduction contradicted everything the ex-policeman knew about Mycroft. The elder Holmes was more sensitive than his brother, but things that would devastate most people merely galvanized the man into action. He’d never been one to let any situation master him.

“I’m not so sure you’re right about this, Sherlock, no offense,” he said slowly. “I’ll grant that the choice of hospital for whatever treatment he _did_ undergo is unusual. But I’d talk to him before you start upsetting yourself and everyone else with these… suspicions.”

“They’re not suspicions, they’re deductions. And I _am_ right. I saw dried gel on his skin, near the hairline.”

Greg Lestrade knew from direct experience that powerful men and women had their secrets, closet skeletons that lurked behind Saville Row suits and Prada gowns. Irene Adler’s infamous camera phone had nothing on the things he’d discovered when these illustrious individuals became involved in something –wittingly or otherwise- that brought them to Scotland Yard’s attention. But Sherlock’s declaration left him shocked and disoriented. He’d come to think of Mycroft Holmes as the individual who achieved the impossible, mastered the unthinkable, and succeeded where everyone else failed.  He felt like he was floundering for a life raft as he insisted, “It doesn’t make sense, though. If your brother has been treated with electric shock before, it means he has a history of depression. Wouldn’t you have known about it if that were the case?”

“Not necessarily. Mycroft and I were estranged for years. He spied on me via his surveillance network and deposited funds in my bank account, but I knew nothing about his personal life because we rarely met face to face.”

“I still think you would have sensed that something was off when you did meet. Wouldn’t you? Christ, I can’t buy a different brand of soap without you sussing it out.”

“I would have thought so, but it appears that he’s been better at hiding it than our-” The younger man stopped. “Let’s just say there is a genetic predisposition.”

“Bloody hell.” Lestrade exhaled and leaned back. “But _shock therapy_ , Sherlock? Why shoot electricity into your head when there are tablets available?”

“Tablets are an ongoing treatment, something Mycroft would find unpalatable. This is a quick fix, albeit an extreme one.” Sherlock’s jaw tightened. “This much is obvious- whoever kidnapped John and Alexei knew about Mycroft’s past experience with depression. They chemically induced a crisis, knowing what he would do to combat it: go off his own radar so that he could be secretly treated with ECT. They also knew that he would take John with him.”

“So you think this was all a ruse to get John?”

“And possibly Alexei too, though his presence at the hospital wouldn’t have been as easy to anticipate.” Sherlock turned his head to meet Lestrade’s worried stare. “You do realize that we’re dealing with our most dangerous adversary yet? He or she knows about Mycroft’s secret vulnerability. Not even Moriarty or Irene Adler accomplished that kind of breach.”

The former DI could only nod, temporarily at a loss for words.

A few minutes later the cab stopped. Sherlock paid the driver and they got out.

“This way,” he said.

They were in a dodgier area of East London. Lestrade peered cautiously into every dark doorway or alley that they passed, but Sherlock strode with purpose, eyes straight ahead. They soon came to an abandoned shop whose boarded-up façade was covered in graffiti.  A small group of boys and girls, aged from fourteen to eighteen, stood on the pavement in front, smoking and speaking in low voices. They turned as the two men approached, and a few faces lit up in recognition.

A thin youth with spiked blonde hair broke away from the crowd and walked toward them, arms extended. “Sherlock! How you doing, mate?” He sounded genuinely pleased.

Sherlock got right to the point. Raising his voice so everyone could hear, he asked, “Were any of you around St. Thomas Hospital today? Between 11:00 a.m. and noon?”

The boy made a face. “Nice to see you too. And no, I wasn’t.”

One by one, the others shook their heads.

“Oi, here comes Astrid,” someone at the back of the group said. “Didn’t she say she was going out that way this morning?”

Lestrade looked over his shoulder and saw a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen approaching from across the street. She wore faded jeans and a dark blue jumper whose front pockets protected her hands from the evening chill. Her straight black hair sat atop her head in a fashionably messy ponytail, and her milk-white skin was luminous in the fading light.

Lestrade squinted: he was sure he’d seen her before. But where?

Astrid slowed her pace once she realized that all eyes were on her. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“You’re new,” Sherlock declared. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

The girl wrinkled her nose in annoyance. “Who’s this? Someone’s dad?” she queried no one in particular.

The blonde boy went to meet her. “No, this is Sherlock. We told you about him.”

“Oh. The bloke who pays you lot to spy for him. Right, I remember.”

Lestrade glanced at the detective for his reaction, and saw that Sherlock was peering closely at Astrid. Like he was trying to place her somehow.

“I’ve been told that you were around St. Thomas today,” Sherlock told her. “If that’s true, I want to ask you a few questions.”

She was suddenly nervous. “Yeah? Maybe I don’t want to answer them.”

“He’s not a copper,” one of the girls reassured her.

Astrid took a step back, her pearly complexion going even paler. “Hold on a second. You want to know about those bodies that were smuggled out of the hospital this afternoon, don’t you?”

“Bodies?” Lestrade echoed. “What are you talking about, Miss?”

But she wasn’t listening: she was running away as fast as her legs could carry her.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **beta:** chasingriver
> 
> Sincere apologies for letting several weeks go by without an update. RL was nuts. But happy days are here again! :)

Astrid didn’t get far. Sherlock caught up to her easily and snatched her jumper hood. When she spun around to kick him, she lost her balance and fell onto all fours.

“Let me go!” she yelled. “I’m under eighteen! I’ll sue you if you touch me!”

Sherlock, unfazed, yanked her upright just as Lestrade and a few of the kids hurried up.

“Easy, Sherlock,” Lestrade pleaded. To Astrid he said, “There’s no need to run. We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to know what you saw.”

“Yeah? Tell this ponce to let go then.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Sherlock growled.

The blond youth raised both hands. “Astrid, it’s cool. It really is. Whatever shit you saw at the hospital, Sherlock can protect you. He knows some important people.”

“And I know even more people who _think_ they’re important but are merely reasonably competent,” Sherlock added, staring pointedly at Lestrade. The former DI glared back before taking out his phone and composing a text to Anthea. After providing their location, he added, _I think this girl definitely saw something._

“I don’t want any part of it,” Astrid insisted. “I should never have opened my bloody mouth.”

“Really? I’m rather glad you did.” Sherlock leaned forward. “Out with it. What’s this about bodies?”

She crossed her arms. “Why don’t you go jump off a building- again?”

“Astrid!” a boy with multiple nose rings gasped. “Jesus Christ!”

Sherlock –to everyone’s amazement- didn’t throw her into an overflowing bin. He actually smiled, but his lips were pulled back so tightly that he resembled a snarling wolf.

“So you read the tabloids and are capable of a weak put-down. Congratulations. You’ve just outed yourself as a pathetic specimen of humanity.”

“Makes two of us then.”

Lestrade took out his badge. Actually, it was one of the many badges that Sherlock had stolen from him over the years. Being retired he was technically no longer allowed to use it, but this situation called for unorthodox measures.

“I’m with the police,” he said. “And I’m warning you that you’re withholding information in an important investigation.”

Astrid arched an eyebrow. “I’m fourteen. You can’t talk to me unless a parent or guardian is present.”

Lestrade’s phone emitted a text alert. The message was from Anthea.

_En route. Mr. Holmes informed of developments. He says to bring the girl to the house for additional questioning. I will assist with transfer. A._

Lestrade had no idea how Anthea intended to get this baby tiger into a car in front of witnesses. The street kids probably wouldn’t say or do anything for Sherlock’s sake, but a handful of people were waiting at a bus stop two blocks away, and any shouts or screams would draw their attention fast.

 As he put the phone away, he said uneasily, “You really want your parents involved, Astrid?”

“Is that a problem?” Everything about the girl- her stance, her unblinking stare- radiated defiance. Unable to run, she was clearly determined to make things as difficult as possible.

“You’re not calling anyone until you tell us what we want to know,” Sherlock hissed. His grey eyes glittered in mounting anger: even the street kids now regarded him nervously. Lestrade understood his anxiety: the surly Astrid might have unwittingly seen John and Alexei being taken from the hospital, and every second that she did a human stonewall act represented precious time lost. But Lestrade knew something that Sherlock was too agitated to appreciate: threatening a minor on a public street would create more problems than it solved.

“Look,” the former DI said to Astrid, who looked as if she was trying to decide whether to scratch Sherlock’s eyes out or kick him in the balls. “I’m going to lay it out for you. You may have witnessed an abduction that we’re investigating. Two people are missing, and we need to know what you saw, because frankly, Miss, we’ve got nothing to go on. Please. Help us.”

She scanned his face, expression slowly changing from hostile to wary. Once again Lestrade felt that he’d seen her before or, at the very least, she reminded him of someone. The daughter of a criminal he’d arrested in the past, perhaps? Or maybe he’d noticed her being brought in by one of the juvenile bureau officers while he was still with the Met.

“I don’t want to appear in court or have my picture published anywhere,” she finally said.

She probably had a juvenile record, Lestrade decided. That had to be why she looked familiar. That wasn’t his problem any longer, so he said, “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Okay then.” She glowered at Sherlock. “Let go of me first.”

When the detective hesitated, Lestrade snapped, “For God’s sake, do it.”

Sherlock reluctantly complied but kept his gloved hand inches from her elbow. Astrid made a big show out of rearranging her jumper before speaking.

“I did go to St. Thomas this morning. Reckon it wasn’t long after noon. I went round to the bins to see if there was anything with street value. Expired prescriptions, stuff like that.” She smirked. “I saw three blokes and a nurse bringing a laundry cart outside, so I hid and waited for them to leave. They pushed the cart up to a laundry truck-”

“How do you know it was a laundry truck?” Sherlock demanded.

Astrid huffed. “It was white, and when a bloke inside opened the back door, I saw other carts inside. And don’t ask me if I saw a license plate, because I didn’t. I was just waiting for them to piss off so I could get on with my treasure hunt.”

“Go on,” Lestrade encouraged, shooting Sherlock a warning look.

“They took two bodies out of the cart and put them in the back of the truck. They were wrapped in sheets but I know they were bodies because I saw a head.” She touched her scalp. “Short blond hair, think it was a man.”

“John,” Sherlock breathed.

“What direction did they leave in?” Lestrade asked, trying –and failing- to keep the excitement out of his voice.

She shrugged. “Don’t know. I didn’t watch them go. Just waited until I couldn’t hear the motor anymore and then carried on.” Eying Lestrade warily, she added, “Didn’t find anything worth selling, so no point nicking me.”

“Not this time anyway,” he bluffed as he desperately willed Anthea’s car to appear. As far as he was concerned, there was no point in grabbing Astrid and interrogating her further: her story had been detailed and she had no discernible reason for withholding anything. It was more urgent that they retrieve and review camera footage for the streets surrounding St. Thomas. Although all surveillance within one block of the hospital had mysteriously malfunctioned during Mycroft’s visit, the white truck should be easy to spot and track in the outlying areas.

As if on cue, a dark government sedan careened around the corner at such a high speed that it nearly hit the streetlight. When it halted a short distance from the small group, Anthea threw the front passenger door open and stepped halfway out. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wide.

“Alexei managed to get a hold of someone’s mobile and texted Mr. Holmes a few minutes ago!” she exclaimed. “We’re tracing the phone’s GPS coordinates right now!”

“Oh, thank Christ,” Lestrade gasped as he and Sherlock bolted for the car. Before sliding onto the back seat, he turned his head, intending to shout a quick thank-you to Astrid. He frowned in confusion when he saw that she was staring at Anthea, mouth open and face livid with anger.

Like she wanted to kill the figurative messenger.

Lestrade called to her, but she turned abruptly and hurried down the street, pressing a pink-cased phone to her ear and punching the air like it was Sherlock’s face.

******

While Sherlock and Lestrade were tangling with a stubborn teenaged girl, John was being woken out of a heavy sleep by shrill screams.

Coming from Alexei.

He threw the heavy bed curtains aside. A few lamps were still on, so he immediately saw the boy huddled next to the fireplace, clutching his bloody nose.

 “My nose” he wailed. “I think it’s broken.”

John sprang off the mattress and rushed over to him. “Did you fall?” he exclaimed.  He was still weak from the earlier migraine, but adrenaline gave him necessary energy.

“Y-yes. I must have been sleepwalking.”

“Lower your hands. Let me see.”

Alexei obeyed. John saw with relief that the blood flow was actually very light, and there was no sign of damage to the boy’s nose. He was about to reassure him when the door opened and the two minders hurried into the room.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Gary bellowed.

“He’s hurt himself,” John retorted. “Get me a first aid kit.”

The Scotsman hesitated. When he saw the blood on Alexei’s face and fingers, he swore and turned to his Russian cohort. “Yuri, get a kit from the kitchen. Ask the cook where it is.”

The Russian- Yuri- disappeared into the hall. As soon as he was gone, the teenager leaped to his feet.

“I can’t take this anymore! I’m getting out of here!” he shouted with such atypical hysteria that John’s alarm escalated. He bolted for the open door, but Gary seized him around the middle.

“I don’t think so, you little fucker!” the guard grunted.

Alexei pulled his bloody lips back from his teeth and snarled like a wild animal. He hammered at Gary’s chest and tried to knee him in the groin, but to no avail. The big Scotsman dragged him over to the bed and threw him onto it.

“That’s enough!” John was between them in an instant, fists clenched. “Don’t you touch him!”

“If he runs for the door again, I’ll do more than touch him.”

Alexei scrambled off the bed, but didn’t make another break for freedom. Instead, he ran into the toilet and slammed the door shut.

“Good. He can stay in there and beat the shit out of the walls.” Gary pushed his hair out of his eyes and tucked his shirt back into his jeans. “I knew that kid was a freak.”

John could barely contain his anger. “You like pushing boys around, yeah?”

Gary’s grin was nasty. “No. Failed soldiers are usually more fun.”

John wanted to punch him in the teeth. But he still felt unsteady, and suspected that Mayberry would not be too bothered if the big Scotsman beat him senseless. Alexei was their captor’s real concern: John was merely collateral to ensure the boy’s cooperation.

John was about to settle for telling Gary to go fuck himself, but the sound of rushing tap water interrupted him. “Alexei?” he called, pushing past the glowering guard with such force that the man grunted and stumbled back. He knocked on the toilet door once before turning the knob. “Alexei, I’m coming in.”

When he opened the door the teenager was at the sink, cleaning the blood off his face.

“I’m all right now,” Alexei said, sounding a little breathless but otherwise normal. “I apologise for the hysterics.”

“Let me see your face,” John ordered, picking up a flannel. He had the feeling that this was no sleepwalking mishap, but refrained from asking questions while the hostile Scotsman was in earshot. He touched the cloth gently to Alexei’s nose, noting some redness and slight bruising around the nostrils. “The bleeding’s stopped, which is good.”

Just then Yuri returned with the first aid kit. When Gary turned toward him, Alexei put his mouth to John’s ear.

“I’m all right. Really. No time to explain, but we’re going to be rescued very soon.”

John’s heart leaped, but the minders were approaching, so he cleared his throat and said for their benefit, “Your nose doesn’t look broken, thank God.”

“It’s not,” the teenager whispered. “I didn’t hit myself too hard.”

Gary loomed in the doorway. “Out here. Both of you. Watson, you do anything but wipe his nose and you’ll be needing treatment next.”

Alexei rolled his eyes. “Oh, we’re both terrified.”

“Shut up and go sit on the bed.”

Alexei obeyed. John, trying to maintain a surface calm, took the first aid kit that Yuri held out and laid it on the coffee table. The young Russian was about to close the room’s door when John Mayberry and four large, granite-faced men appeared. The skeletal Mayberry spoke calmly enough, but his parchment-like skin was flushed with anger.

“Well, young man,” he said to Alexei, “it appears that I underestimated your resourcefulness.”

“What are you talking about?” John demanded. “He hurt himself.”

“I have it on good authority that he also managed to get access to a mobile just now and send a text to Mycroft Holmes.”

Alexei paled. “That’s rubbish.”

“I don’t think so. This particular source never lies.” Mayberry approached. “Where’s the mobile, Alexei? And more importantly, whose is it?”

John saw it all then. Alexei had bloodied his own nose to create a scene and bring the guards into the room. During his pre-planned struggle with the Scotsman, he’d grabbed the man’s phone and sent a text after running into the toilet. Tracing the phone’s GPS coordinates would be a piece of cake for Mycroft’s people.

But Mayberry had found out somehow. Which meant that Alexei had taken that huge risk in vain. Unless they were just outside London- which didn’t seem likely- they would be moved long before Mycroft arrived.

Alexei crossed his arms, his defiant expression offset by a sheet-white pallor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mayberry took a deep breath. “I really don’t have time for this. We have to relocate immediately. But first, I have to investigate this flagrant breach of security.” He paused. “Gary, Yuri, give me your mobiles, please.”

Yuri produced an iPhone from his jacket pocket and handed it over. Gary reached into his own pocket, and froze.

“Oh, my God,” he breathed. Staring at Alexei with shock and terror, he shouted, “You little bastard!”

That was all he managed to blurt before a bullet from Mayberry’s gun crashed into his chest.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta:** chasingriver

Alexei didn't scream or cry as he watched Gary collapse, but his wide eyes and tight, shaking fists made his horror obvious. John tried to go to the mortally wounded man, who shuddered once before relaxing and bleeding silently onto the stone floor, but a minder with shoulders wider than a football field stopped him.

"You see, Alexei?" Mayberry slid his gun back into its shoulder holster and adjusted his jacket and tie. "Everything you do directly affects someone else's life. Or in this case, causes them to lose it."

The boy looked ill: it was obvious that he hadn't wanted the trick to end in murder, even that of a man who'd bullied him.

"If you ever pull such a foolish stunt again," their captor continued, "Dr. Watson will be punished in a way that makes Gary here appear positively fortunate. Have I made myself clear?"

Alexei's upper lip curled in a reflexive snarl, something his father did when threatened by a perceived inferior. "Transparently so."

Mayberry turned to Yuri, who was staring at his motionless colleague and leaning against the bedpost like it was the only thing holding him up.

"Yuri?"

"Y-yes, sir?"

"If you have a problem with what I've just done, now's the time to tell me."

The Russian shook his head vigourously. "No, Mr. Mayberry, no problem at all. He- he wasn't always pleasant to me."

"He was also incredibly careless. A weakness I can't afford to overlook when so much is at stake." Mayberry returned his attention to his hostages. "Your new quarters will not be as pleasant as these ones, but I don't need to remind you that this is your doing."

A mobile trilled. He took a Blackberry out of his pocket, listened briefly to the caller, and said, "Alright, we're on our way up." After disconnecting the call, he told his men, "The helicopter is ready. Let's proceed to the roof immediately. Johnson should have completed the mainframe backups and appropriate deletions by now. But first-" He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Yuri, come here please."

The Russian's eyes widened. Mayberry couldn't resist a chuckle that sounded more sinister than humorous.

"Come, now. We haven't got all night and you've done nothing to make me question your loyalty or competence."

When the guard cautiously approached, his boss handcuffed him and Alexei together. The sound of metal bracelets snapping shut made John flinch.

"Just a precaution," Mayberry told the boy. "You're probably as quick physically as you are mentally. But before we go: James, search young Mr. Nowak-Holmes and Dr. Watson for Gary's phone."

The man obeyed, his hands quick but thorough. "Nothing, Sir."

"Good. Let it remain here then. All right, everyone, time is running out. Let us proceed."

He strode into the hallway with two of the minders directly behind him. Yuri and Alexei followed while John brought up the rear with the other two guards. Both men grumbled to each other over his head.

"The Cove is shit compared to this place…."

"Damned kid…."

John wasn't handcuffed to anyone, a reminder that he was insignificant in the general scheme of things: mere insurance to keep Alexei from trying anything else. As he glanced into the shadowy rooms lining the hallway, an idea hit. It was dangerous. Some would dismiss it was crazy. Others would say that it was also heartless, as he would be abandoning a boy he'd vowed to protect.

When he and Alexei had been taken to bathe, John had noticed that the bathroom door had, in addition to a brass lock, an ancient deadbolt that could secure it from the inside. He was willing to bet that the room they'd been imprisoned in was the only one in this place that didn't have such a mechanism.

"Alexei," he said slowly, "you trust me, don't you?"

"Of course. You always try to do what's right."

Yuri cocked his head slightly at the exchange, but Mayberry didn't appear to have heard. The skeletal mastermind had taken out his phone again and was talking to someone named Astrid, saying that they were en route to "the Cove" and would be conducting the "medical tests" tomorrow.

John glanced over his shoulder. The two guards weren't even looking at him. It was literally now or never.

_Forgive me for leaving you like this, Alexei._

Whirling around, John grabbed one of the two gunmen and hurled him into his colleague, sending them both careening into a suit of armour. During the ensuing uproar, he sprinted to the right, into a room packed with mismatched furniture, and bolted the door. Then he grabbed the closest weapon: a sword that was part of a lethal-looking wall display. It would be useless against a bullet, but he was hoping that Mayberry wouldn't want to waste precious minutes trying to break into the room. John was not essential to their scheme. At least not essential enough to jeopardise their escape.

Mayberry shouted something. A boot thudded against the door, followed by a howl of pain. John couldn't resist a malicious grin as he imagined some over-enthusiastic bodyguard tackling a barrier meant to keep much stronger invaders out.

Voices raged out in the hallway.

"Bolted from the inside, Sir…."

"…shoot the lock?"

"Don't bother."

Alexei's voice rose above the clamour. "Well done, John!"

"We'll find you, I promise!" John shouted back.

"We'll allow Dr. Watson his minor victory," Mayberry said tersely. "We have to go. Holmes will likely be here within the hour."

Footsteps hurried away, gradually growing fainter until all was silent. Minutes later John heard the rhythmic thud of helicopter blades. When it subsided, he dropped the sword onto the carpet and slid to his knees. Now that the adrenalin rush had abated, he felt nauseous knowing that Alexei was still in Mayberry's clutches. His sole consolation was the knowledge that he had two clues: Mayberry's reference to the 'cove', which was their intended destination, and the name Astrid.

If anyone could find Alexei using only two words as clues, it was the Holmes brothers.

******

The room grew colder as he waited, thanks to the window, whose time-warped frame left it jammed open. After peering outside and seeing nothing but a steep drop and Stygian blackness, John grabbed a tapestry from the wall, wrapped it around his shoulders, and began walking the room's perimeter to stay warm. He knew he should unbolt the door and find a more comfortable location to wait for Mycroft, but he could not stop his hypnotic pacing, which numbed his mind and made the guilt more bearable.

_Alexei will be all right. He's a Holmes: danger excites him._

_But he's only fourteen._

_Fourteen in Holmes years- what's the 'human' equivalent, thirty-five?_

_I shouldn't have left him._

_But I had no choice. And he understood._

A sudden noise broke the stillness. John paused and listened. A moment later, it came again.

The weak moan of a man in pain.

He dropped the tapestry and went to the door. "Hello?" he called.

A reply came quickly.

"Oh Christ… help me…."

The voice was weak and lacking its usual arrogance, but John recognized the owner right away.

Gary. The man was alive.

His physician's instinct took over. Picking up the discarded sword, he unbolted the door and peered out. Seeing no one lingering about, he stepped into the hallway and ran back to the huge room that he'd come to think of as his prison cell.

Gary had been lying on his back when John last saw him, but he'd managed to roll onto his side and raise himself onto one elbow. Blood coursed slowly from a wound below the left nipple area, darkening his shirt and widening the puddle on the floor. He looked up at John's approach, eyes vacuous with pain.

"Please." Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth as he tried to speak. "Help me."

"Don't move." Dropping the sword, John grabbed three pillows from the bed, stacked them behind the wounded Scotsman, and lowered him carefully onto the soft pile. Gary grimaced at the change in position but remained still as John pulled up his shirt to examine the wound.

"H-how did you get away?" the man whispered.

"It wasn't easy," John replied tersely. "Looks like you've got a punctured lung."

"Will I live?" Gary sounded like a frightened child. John, who'd seen many bullies reduced to this state by pain or fear, nodded.

"Fortunately for you, help will be here soon." John stood up, retrieved the folded flannel that had been used to soothe his migraine hours earlier, and handed it over. "Here. Hold this against the wound, as firmly as you can bear."

As he obeyed, Gary closed his eyes and moved his lips in what looked like a wordless prayer. When he opened them again, he whispered, "That bony fucker shot me."

John knelt beside him again. "That's right: he did. And now Mycroft Holmes is coming. You helped keep Alexei and I prisoner here. He's not going to be happy with you, so brace yourself."

Gary made a noise that was meant to be dismissive, but John saw fear flash across his ruddy features. "I- I just worked for Mayberry. That's all."

"Mayberry's not here, is he? But you are. And just because you're injured doesn't mean Mycroft won't hurt you further." Inspired, John leaned in closer. "Unless…."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you tell me everything first. Then I'll advise Mycroft that you cooperated and make sure it goes well for you. He might even be persuaded to let you go." John hated the latter thought, but Gary really was a minor figure in the entire scheme. "So how about it?"

The Scotsman licked his bloody lips nervously. "Al- alright."

"I heard Mayberry say that they were shifting operations to 'the Cove'. Where is that?"

"Never been there. But I know it's in Scotland. Isle of Lewis."

"Where exactly on the island?"

"I don't know, I swear. Never been there. Just heard Mayberry refer to it."

John glared. Gary raised a placating hand.

"I'm telling the truth, I swear!"

Allowing that it was a possibility, John asked the other question that he desperately needed to know the answer to.

"Mayberry said that he brought Alexei here to save his life. What does that mean exactly?"

The response left John so horrified that he barely heard the sound of approaching helicopters.

"The story's bullshit. It isn't Mayberry's life he'll be saving. Mayberry's got someone- a girl- with cancer. Don't know what kind. But I do know that Alexei's a perfect match as a donor, and they're going to dig some gland out of his head and put it in hers. Then they're going to kill him."

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta:** chasingriver

John sprang to his feet. "I'll let them know where we are," he told Gary, who was now coughing up small amounts of blood.

The Scotsman nodded. "Please hurry."

Mycroft shouted again. This time Sherlock and Lestrade joined in.

"John? Alexei?"

"Someone's in the kitchen over there!"

A door crashed open under the force of a heavy boot. A woman screamed.

_Kitchen help who must have been left behind_ , John realised. He sprinted into the hall and called, "Mycroft! I'm here!"

"John!" Sherlock yelled back.

John heard Mycroft order someone to take "those women" into custody before calling, "Stay where you are- we're coming!"

Footsteps pounded in John's direction, growing louder with each passing second. Then Mycroft appeared at the end of the hall, clutching an automatic in one gloved fist. Sherlock, Lestrade, and four bodyguards flanked him, the latter holding machine weaponry.

When John bolted toward them, Mycroft slid his gun into its holster and extended his arms.

"Thank God you're safe. Where's Alexei?"

"Not here," John whispered against Mycroft's chest. When he felt the other man tense, he added, "But he's all right, and I know where they've taken him."

"Is everyone gone?" Lestrade surveyed the hall. "We found three women in the kitchen downstairs, but they were locked in and they don't appear to even speak English. Sherlock says they're Russian."

"I think they're just kitchen help. Everyone else left by helicopter around an hour ago."

Granite face softened by relief, Sherlock scanned John from head to toe. "You've got blood on your clothes."

"There's a wounded man in that bedroom back there. One of Mayberry's heavies." John drew back and looked up at Mycroft. "He –the bloke who took us- said his name is John Mayberry. American. Late fifties. Around your height, but bloody thin- looks like a skeleton from one of my old anatomy classes."

After ordering one of his men to see to Gary, Mycroft stared at the floor. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened, making him appear several years older.

"I don't ever recall meeting such a person," he said.

"You must have done something –directly or indirectly- to make him want to move against you like this," Sherlock said. His tone was normal but John saw his lips tighten, which was his trademark resentment signal. "Perhaps you've forgotten. Has your memory been … _compromised_ recently?"

John's heart sank. Sherlock had obviously figured out why Mycroft had been at St. Thomas, and was now punishing his brother for… what exactly? Faltering when he was supposed to be invincible? It was appalling behaviour and normally John would have admonished him, but now was not the time for a public rebuke.

Mycroft wasn't so reticent. Releasing John, he approached his brother until they were literally nose to nose. When he spoke, his voice was glacier-cold.

"This individual has abducted two of the people I care about the most. Rest assured that if I ever encountered anyone with that much animosity toward me personally, I would remember them. Not that there are many such people left alive."

Sherlock stared back. "You're not at your best right now, Mycroft, and we both know it."

John glanced at Mycroft's men, but they were only half-listening: clearly they'd learned to tune out these barbed exchanges. Not wanting the conversation to become more dangerous, he said, "We need to go. Mayberry's already got a head start on us."

After a parting glare, Mycroft turned back to John. "Where has he taken Alexei?"

John repeated Gary had said about the Cove. As he spoke, the Scotsman's revelation about Alexei's intended fate twisted inside him like a poisonous worm. He knew he should include that horrifying detail, but couldn't. Mycroft had been through too much already and besides, the boy would be rescued soon. The elder Holmes would find out eventually and let the knowledge inspire appropriate retribution.

Mycroft raised his voice. "Morton!"

The guard tending to Gary poked his head into the hallway. "Yes, sir?"

"Call Base Twelve and have them send prisoner transport and a medical team here. We'll also need someone fluent in Russian to interrogate the women. Tell Cullen to remain with them until the team arrives. The rest of us are going to retrieve my son." He turned and surveyed everyone else. "Let's go."

With Mycroft in the lead, the group turned back the way it had come. As they navigated the dim passageways, John stared about.

"Where is this place anyway?" he asked. "No one ever told us."

"Former baronial estate in Surrey," Mycroft replied. "The owners are in America and rent out the property whenever possible. Anthea is reviewing their recent financial transactions and trying to contact them." A pause. "My helicopter is on the roof. When we're airborne, I need you to tell me everything that happened. I am most interested in additional details about Mr. Mayberry."

"Of course. Listen… Alexei is going to be all right. You'd have been proud of him tonight."

Mycroft's smile was faint but genuine. "I haven't the slightest doubt of that."

When they emerged through a rooftop doorway into the night air, the wind from the helicopter blades blew dust into John's eyes, forcing him to grab Mycroft's arm. When he felt a light trembling underneath the thick coat sleeve, he prayed again that Alexei would be retrieved unharmed, and not just for the boy's sake. Right now he questioned Mycroft's ability to survive the darker alternative.

******

It wasn't until the helicopter was ascending into the night sky that Sherlock broke his moody silence.

"Tell us everything, John," he urged, shouting to be heard above the noise. Although animated at the prospect of hearing and analysing the details, he was visibly anxious, which softened John's irritation somewhat.

_He spent hours not knowing what happened to Alexei and I. And he's discovered what Mycroft has been keeping from him all these years. He's worried, confused, and angry._

After resolving to speak privately with Sherlock later, John recounted his ordeal, beginning with the moment he and Alexei regained consciousness in the bedroom. Mycroft's men were within hearing distance and he wasn't sure what they'd been told, so he omitted the abduction at the hospital. When he recounted how Alexei had stolen Gary's phone and sent a message, Sherlock actually smiled and declared, "Well done."

"It was bloody brilliant, actually." John hung his head. "But leaving him like that nearly killed me."

Mycroft, who'd been sending commands to various parties on his mobile, paused and touched his wrist. "Don't. He wanted you to do it."

"It's just as well that Alexei was able to text," Lestrade said. "Before that, all we had to go on was a girl who nearly kicked Sherlock's arse."

"Girl?" John echoed.

"A little rebel. Kids like that make me glad I'm no longer with the Met. What was her name, Sherlock? Astrid?"

"Yes. And don't exaggerate, Lestrade. She didn't kick my arse. Not even close."

John's heartbeat quickened. "Astrid? You're sure?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes at Sherlock's rebuke. "Yeah. Just a teenager, but what a bloody attitude! She told us she saw you and Alexei being smuggled out of that place. We were about to bring her in for questioning when Anthea showed up and told us that Alexei had sent a message."

"But she was only a _teenager_?"

"Looked about fourteen."

"Why, John?" Mycroft asked.

"I heard Mayberry talking on his mobile to someone by that name. Maybe it's a coincidence. Has to be. He couldn't have been talking to a-"

He stopped as Gary's words echoed in his head.

_Mayberry's got someone- a girl- with cancer. Don't know what kind. But I do know that Alexei's a perfect match as a donor, and they're going to dig some gland out of his head and put it in hers. Then they're going to kill him._

"Oh, dear God," he breathed.

Lestrade leaned forward. "What is it?"

"How exactly did you encounter this girl?"

Lestrade's brow furrowed, but he obliged with details about the visit to Sherlock's homeless network and the battle of wills and words with Astrid. When he said that the girl had been present when Anthea announced Alexei's communication, John groaned.

"That's it then. That's how Mayberry found out. She told him that Alexei had texted."

"She was on her mobile when we left," Sherlock remembered. "Well, it appears that she's not as innocent as Lestrade presumed. It's a good thing that I obtained a sample of her DNA." The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out a carefully folded napkin. "Something about her was not on. So when she struggled with me, I obtained some hair samples from her jumper."

John stared at the paper square. "Brilliant," he breathed. "Well done."

Sherlock flushed with pleasure as he re-pocketed the evidence. "If she has any kind of record, we shall identify her."

"And possibly Mayberry, if the fucker does get away from us," Lestrade commented. "If he's connected like this to a girl that age, she's got to be a relative. An extended DNA cross-match could flush him out too."

John closed his eyes. Once again he recalled Gary's comment.

_Mayberry's got someone- a girl- with cancer._

A daughter, maybe? Was John Mayberry a parent who would literally kill for his child?

He opened his eyes again and glanced at Mycroft. The elder Holmes was gazing out the small window, his jaw set. John knew what he was thinking: no DNA tests would be necessary because Mayberry would not escape. Mycroft intended to capture him, exact vengeance, and then consign him- DNA and all- to an unmarked grave. And John had no problem with that. At all.

But what about Astrid?

He knew that if she had indeed been the one who alerted Mayberry to Alexei's trick- and all signs currently pointed to that being the case- then she was complicit in the entire affair.

What would happen to her?

Surely Mycroft would not….

His thoughts were interrupted by the helicopter beginning its descent. Looking out the window, John could see dawn making an appearance in the east.

"We're landing at a private airfield outside Edinburgh," Mycroft informed everyone. "A car will take us to the airport, where we shall board a seven o'clock commercial flight to Stornoway." He turned to his bodyguards. "You will remain behind and take a second flight departing an hour later. Check your mobiles for instructions from my assistant."

Lestrade frowned. "Why are we switching to a commercial flight? It means a delay in getting there."

John was wondering the same thing, but Sherlock understood immediately.

"Someone with Mayberry's considerable resources will probably be watching for unusual air traffic to the island. This way we'll be hiding in plain sight."

"Just so." Mycroft nodded. "John, there will be a change of clothes for you in the car."

John gazed down at his jumper, which was mottled with dried patches of Gary's blood. "Appreciate it," he said. Then he shuddered.

"You all right?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah, yeah, fine."

He wasn't. Not by a long shot. But for Mycroft's sake, he would pretend.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **beta:** chasingriver

By the time their plane landed in Stornoway, John was running on pure adrenaline. Glancing at a wall mirror as they walked through the small airport, he cringed at his wretched appearance. Worry lines, dark under-eye circles, and a greyish pallor drew concerned stares from passengers and airport staff alike.

“You can’t do this, John. You’re going to keel over any minute,” Lestrade said after Mycroft broke from their group to approach a car rental booth. “We should put you up in a hotel and let you wait this one out.”

Sherlock, who’d been scanning their surroundings to spot potential lookouts, turned around. “Don’t be daft, Lestrade. He won’t rest until Alexei is safe.”

“Except for the part about you being daft, he’s right, Greg.” John rubbed his eyes and blinked to clear his vision. “I need to see this through. To know that Alexei’s all right.”

Mycroft returned, holding some signed paperwork. “A valet is bringing our car to the front entrance.”

As they headed for the exit, John asked, “How do you plan on locating the Cove?”

“The island is not that big. I believe we can find it simply by asking an observant person.”

John had no clue what that meant, but had enough trust in what he’d come to think of as the ‘Holmes process’ to know that there was always a method to the mystery.

When the rented car pulled up to the curb, Mycroft tipped the valet, handed the keys to Lestrade, and directed him to drive into Stornoway. “We need to find a newsagent that opens no later than six a.m.,” he said as he stepped into the back seat.

John slid in beside him. “Why so early?”

“Because the proprietor would have been awake and en route to their shop at approximately the same time Mayberry's helicopter approached the island this morning,” Sherlock explained.

“Oh. Yeah, right.” Although fogged by fatigue, John saw the logic. At that hour it would have been dark and quiet here, making incoming helicopter lights visible even at a distance. “Sorry, just a bit slow. Nothing a good dose of caffeine won’t cure.”

Mycroft drew him close. John rested his temple against the other man’s shoulder and let himself doze off, lulled by the steady hum of the motor and the soft breezes coming in through the half-open windows.

He woke up when the car stopped. Looking out the window, he saw that they were parked outside a newsagents’. A sign on the door indicated that it opened at 5:30 a.m.

After discreetly surveying the street, Mycroft opened the car door and stepped out. “I will only be a moment,” he said.

John unbuckled his seat belt.“I’ll go with you.”

“It’s not necessary. Stay and rest.”

“I’m fine. Really.” John exited the vehicle and took a deep breath of the morning air. “Besides, they might sell coffee and I sure as hell need one.”

Inside, an older woman was minding the shop alone. Seeing her struggle to carry a box out of a stockroom, John hurried over.

“Let me help you with that,” he said.

“Thank you,” she replied gratefully as she manoeuvred it into his arms. “Behind the counter, please.”

While John obliged, Mycroft picked up a copy of the _Times_ and carried it to the cash register. She rang it up.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Do you sell coffee?” John asked hopefully.

The woman smiled. “Technically no, but I’ve got a pot I brewed for myself in the back. I’ll pour you a cup. Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk, please.”

When she returned from the stockroom with a steaming paper cup, he took it gratefully. “Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure. Will there be anything else, gentlemen?”

“No, thank you.” Mycroft handed her a twenty and looked around while she counted out the change. “I see that you open rather early.”

“Yes, a lot of people say that. But I don't sleep well, so I might as well work.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Mycroft made a sympathetic face. “As you may have already surmised, my associate and I are not from Lewis, and now that we’re here we’re in a bit of a quandary. Perhaps you can assist us.”

“Certainly, if I can.”

“We're looking into purchasing some property here, and were supposed to meet friends of ours who arrived very early this morning by helicopter. Neither of them is answering their mobile and we're quite concerned. When you were coming to open the shop, did you by any chance see or hear approaching air traffic?”

John knew they'd struck paydirt when the woman's eyes widened. “I was wondering why someone was coming here so early,” she declared. “They didn’t land at the airport, which I also thought was strange.”

“It was a private helicopter,” Mycroft explained. “Do you have any idea where it landed?”

“I do, in fact. On the far west end of Point, near Bayble, near as I could tell.”

John, not being familiar with the island, didn't know where she was talking about, but Mycroft seemed to. “Thank you so much, Madam,” he said, bowing. “We are most grateful to you.”

When they returned to the car, Mycroft told Sherlock and Lestrade what they’d discovered. Whipping out his mobile, he said, “The assault team will arrive from Edinburgh on the nine o’clock flight. Arranging for their weaponry to be quietly conveyed on a commercial aircraft took longer than I anticipated. I also had to inconvenience nine passengers by transferring their bookings to my team.” He added, “For which they shall be amply compensated.”

“For seats on that airline?” Sherlock grumbled. “A cup of coffee would be ample compensation.”

John checked his watch: it was almost nine. Mycroft’s people wouldn’t be here until quarter past ten at the earliest. A helicopter or private jet would have been faster, but the elder Holmes was taking no chances. If Mayberry’s surveillance system detected anything suspicious, their chances of retrieving Alexei unharmed would plummet.

“We're not going to just wait here for them, are we?” Sherlock demanded.

“No, we are not,” Mycroft replied without interrupting his typing speed. “We're going to Point immediately. It’s approximately six miles from Stornoway. The team will track my mobile phone and join us upon arrival.”

“Directions would be appreciated,” Lestrade prompted.

“They’ve just been texted to your phone. Please review them quickly and then drive; time is of the essence.”

The former DI took out his mobile and read the newly arrived message. He shook his head as he turned the key in the ignition. “Could have used you when I was lost in the Azores during my last holiday.”

Point turned out to be a sparsely populated peninsula. The moment they crossed the narrow strip of land that connected it to the mainland, Mycroft suddenly said, “That boy over there on the bicycle; he appears to be a paperboy. That’s a marvelous stroke of luck. Gregory, attract his attention.”

Lestrade pulled over and waved. The boy, who was about ten years old, got off his bicycle and approached, looking curious.

Mycroft rolled down his window. “Good morning, young man.”

“Hi.”

“Finished all your deliveries, have you?”

“Yes.” Thinking that Mycroft wanted to buy a paper, the boy looked apologetic. “Mrs. Landesman sells the _Gazette_ in her shop though. You can get one there.”

“That's quite all right,” Mycroft replied kindly. “I was actually hoping you could tell me where I could find my friend.”

“Maybe. What's their name?”

“His name is John, but he doesn't live here. He arrived early this morning by helicopter. You must get up early to collect and deliver your newspapers. Maybe you saw him arrive?”

The boy lit up. “Yeah, sure, he landed over by Moore's cottage. Near Bayble. No one lives there, although my sister says there are ghosts.”

“Really?” Mycroft looked appropriately aghast. “Then I must have a word with John for being so foolish in his choice of locations. Can you tell me where I might find this haunted cottage?”

“Sure. That's easy.” The boy turned around and pointed. "Keep going down that road until you see a left turn. There’s a big bush next to it. It’s not as far as Bayble, but close. Once you get there you’ll have to walk to the cottage, because they put up a roadblock to keep people away.”

“I shall bear that in mind. Thank you.”

After the boy rode away, Lestrade followed the directions provided. Sherlock perched on the edge of his seat, eyes on the road ahead and lips tight.

“Could you _possibly_ go any slower?” he snapped.

“Sherlock,” John warned.

The detective looked over his shoulder, face creased in an anxious scowl. Seeing weary pleading in his best friend’s eyes, he softened and murmured something that might have been a very rare apology.

John turned to Mycroft. “Once we get there, what are we going to do until your team arrives?”

“Whatever appears to be the best course of action.”

That noncommittal answer made John uneasy. Normally he would have trusted Mycroft’s ability to remain in control and wait for backup. Right now he wasn’t so sure. The closer they got to their destination, the stranger Mycroft’s behaviour became; his hands contorted into fists, his jaw was clenched so tightly that his neck muscles rippled, and his stare was unblinking. Even his nostrils flared with each breath. John had seen him on edge before, but never like this: dangerously tense and on the verge of combustion.

“Hey,” John said softly.

Mycroft didn’t turn his head, but his gaze shifted. “Yes?”

“It’s a full-time job keeping Sherlock out of trouble. Don’t make me work overtime by worrying about what you’re going to do when we get there.”

Lestrade glanced at them in the rear view mirror. If Sherlock heard, he gave no indication.

Mycroft closed his eyes and released the breath he’d been holding. “You don’t need to worry,” he said, unclenching his fist and lacing his fingers with John’s. “I appreciate the importance of protocol, although all I want to do is invade Mayberry’s stronghold on arrival.”

“You sure?”

Mycroft squeezed his hand. “Yes.”

“Up there,” Sherlock said, pointing toward a curve in the road. “There’s the left turn that boy was talking about.”

“Pull over and park the car when we reach that turn,” Mycroft told Lestrade. “We shall wait there for the team and then complete our approach on foot.”

The former DI complied. When the car stopped, Mycroft jumped out with a speed and agility that would have done  his younger brother proud. With John and Sherlock close behind, he hurried around the large bush that concealed the detour from the main road.

“I need to determine if the cottage is visible from this distance,” he said. “If so, we will have to-”

He stopped. When John and Sherlock rounded the bush and caught up to him, they saw that he was holding a torn shirt in his hands, staring down at it while his face went paper-white.

John recognised it immediately. “Dear God, that’s Alexei’s.”

That wasn’t the worst thing about the discovery, however. The garment had one sleeve torn off, and blood droplets covered the front.

“A nosebleed,” Sherlock concluded. “He must have tried to- Mycroft? _Mycroft_!”

But the elder Holmes wasn’t listening. He was running down the narrow lane, eyes blazing and looking more like a madman than the backbone of the nation.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Beta:** chasingriver

John bolted after Mycroft, cursing under his breath.

If he’d had any doubts before that  the other man was off his game, this erased them. Sherlock was supposed to be the hyperreactive one, rushing into known disaster but unable to resist. Until a few days ago, Mycroft would never have responded so chaotically; he’d have agonised over the knowledge that his son was being held prisoner only minutes away, but he’d have handled the matter methodically, with planning and strategies and agents in bulletproof vests. The loss of control would only come when he had Mayberry alone in one of those soundproof interrogation rooms where everything was metal so that the blood could be washed away easily afterward.

The ECT had temporarily shattered Mycroft’s steel-lined resolve, something Mayberry had certainly been counting on. Until time recalibrated him, he was a liability on this mission.

John was nearly close enough to grab him when the air exploded to their left, followed by bullets thudding into the earth. Mycroft dove into the bushes lining the lane, and John followed. One bullet grazed his calf, the white-hot pain making him cry out, but he kept going. Belly to the earth, he scrambled through the undergrowth, wincing as sharp branches tore at his hands and face, until he and Mycroft were out of estimated firing range.

“The shot patterns indicate that there’s only one sniper,” the elder Holmes whispered. Blood trickled from a narrow scratch on his cheek. “I heard you shout- were you hit?”

“Just grazed.” John reached out and gripped the other man’s wrist. “Mycroft, you shouldn’t lead the retrieval when you’re in this state, and you know it. Don’t tell me you-”

He was cut off when a bullet hit the ground inches from where they lay, spraying their faces with dirt. Mycroft slithered back on his stomach and John followed. He prayed that Lestrade had Sherlock in some unbreakable wrestling grip, keeping him from rushing toward certain death.

A man’s voice broke out from somewhere across the lane and above their heads.

“What the fuck?”

Branches rustled noisily, followed by more curses, a thud and a groan. Then Sherlock called, “You can both come out now.”

John and Mycroft emerged slowly and carefully from their shelter. They were both disheveled and filthy, a state John had gotten used to thanks to his and Sherlock’s adventures. But mud, scratches, and ripped clothing looked so alien on Mycroft that the doctor would have laughed if the situation weren’t so dire.

A stocky man wearing combat fatigues was lying face down on the lane. Sherlock, who had leaves stuck to his hair and coat, crouched over him, holding both wrists pinned behind his back. A high-powered rifle lay in the grass a few feet away, its scope broken off.

Lestrade ran up. “Everyone all right?”

“Comparatively.” Sherlock surveyed Mycroft and John before returning his attention to his prisoner. “Out with it, then. Where’s Mayberry keeping the boy?”

“Go fuck yourselves.” Spittle ran down the man’s dirty chin, but he was unable to wipe it away. “You can all -OWW!” He broke into a yell when Sherlock applied a crushing pressure to his wrists. “Goddamn it!”

Mycroft approached. He was still breathing in rapid and erratic bursts, but otherwise he appeared to have regained control. “Where was he hiding, Sherlock?”

“That tree.” His brother nodded toward it. “I climbed it and ambushed him while his attention was on you.”

Mycroft frowned. “It’s very close to the lane. I don’t see how he missed John and I. Unless....” His eyes widened and he bent toward the sniper. “You weren’t trying to hit us, were you? Your orders were to hold us back long enough for an evacuation to commence.”

“They knew you’d come, but weren’t sure when,” Sherlock finished. “Alexei’s shirt was placed there because Mayberry knew how you’d react: rush to the rescue and give your presence away.”

There was an accusing tone in his voice that made Mycroft pale. The elder Holmes went down on one knee and, to John’s surprise, grabbed their prisoner by the hair and forced the man’s face up.

“Why is there blood on that shirt?” he demanded.

“Don’t know.”

Mycroft shifted his grip, seizing a handful of dark hair at the man’s temple. When he pulled again, a scream resulted.

“Do you know now?”

“What are you, a fucking queer?’ the sniper gasped when he could speak. “Pulling my hair like a goddamned nancy-”

His outburst ended abruptly when Mycroft let go, jumped up, and kicked him in the face. His nose disappeared in an explosion of blood and he went limp.

“There was no time to trade pathetic insults,” the elder Holmes declared. He retrieved the fallen rifle and reloaded it with a clip from the unconscious sniper’s belt. “Gregory, you and Sherlock need to wait here for the team and lead them upon arrival. John and I shall proceed.”

John knew that Mayberry was likely preparing for escape at this very moment: the rifle shots would have been heard for miles. Soon they’d be dealing with the local police. But he forced himself to say, “No, Mycroft. Sherlock and I will go. You have to stay here. For Alexei’s sake as well as yours.”

Mycroft recoiled. “That is out of the question.”

Sherlock, who’d released their now-insensible prisoner and gotten up, went to stand beside John.

“John is right,” he said. “Mayberry aside, you’ve alerted the entire region to our presence now. Our best chance of getting Alexei out is if you stand down.”

Mycroft glared. “That’s not your decision. My son is out there and I am going in after him.”

John took a deep breath. “I love you,” he whispered. Then he swung his right fist and struck Mycroft on the jaw.

The elder Holmes swayed and dropped the rifle. Touching his face, he stared at the man he loved with shock and opened his mouth as if to speak. Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed without a sound. Vision blurred by tears, John caught him and lowered him gently into the grass.

“I’m so sorry,” the doctor said. He felt ill, and knew that Mycroft’s stunned expression would haunt him long after the bruise faded from his knuckles.

A hand touched his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Sherlock standing there, appearing grave but also strangely proud.

“Let’s go, John.”

He nodded jerkily. After retrieving the discarded rifle, he rose and faced Lestrade, who was staring at him with mingled sympathy and awe.

“Greg,” he said, fighting back tears, “stay and wait for the team. And please...”

“I’ll take care of him,” the former DI replied gently, kneeling next to Mycroft. “Now go, for God’s sake. Before they get away.”

John nodded his thanks before racing down the lane with Sherlock, keeping close to the tree line. As they hurried along, the detective said, “That was the right thing to do.”

“I know. And I hate it.”

“He’ll get over it. I’ve hit him loads of times. Never knocked him unconscious though.”

“I’m not proud of that, Sherlock.”

“He will be. Of you. When he’s... himself again.”

When they reached a spot where the lane veered sharply to the left, they slowed to a walk and peered around a cluster of trees. John tightened his finger on the rifle’s trigger, but all that met their eyes was a silent stone cottage squatting in the middle of a small clearing. A nine-seater minibus was parked near the doorstep, next to a Mazda CX-5.

“Interesting,” Sherlock muttered. “They can’t be planning to evacuate by vehicle; they know by now that we’ve got the lane blocked off. And there’s no sign of an approaching helicopter. The escape route must be by boat.”

“An underground tunnel leading to the coast then?”

Sherlock nodded. “Apparently. They- wait! The door’s opening.”

The two men darted back behind the trees. Gesturing for John to stay in place, Sherlock peered out again.

“Four men,” he reported, voice low but terse with excitement. “Three in their early thirties, one thin fellow in his fifties. Must be Mayberry. Alexei is with them.”

“Is he all right?”

“Appears to be.”

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” a girl’s voice asked, sounding both solicitous and mocking. 

John whirled around, heart hammering. A teenaged girl with ivory skin and black hair stood ten feet away, wearing black leather trousers and a beige motorbike jacket. Four large men flanked her, their rifles trained on the two intruders.

 _They must have come out when they heard the rifle shots_ , John realised. _And we ran right by them._

The girl appeared to read his mind. “It’s all right, Dr. Watson. You had a lot on your mind: namely, rescuing someone very dear to you.”

She couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, but her face was hard and the severe ponytail and form-fitting clothes made her appear unnaturally older. She reminded John of the child soldiers he’d encountered in Afghanistan: prematurely aged boys and girls who touted machine guns with the same gleeful dexterity that British teens handled their iPods and tablets.

“I knew you weren’t a harmless witness,” Sherlock growled. To John, he added, “That’s her. Astrid.”

Astrid’s smile widened. “Drop the weapon, Dr. Watson,” she ordered, nodding at the rifle. “There’s no need for anyone to die.” A significant pause. “Yet.”

John let the weapon fall. He listened intently for the sound of approaching vehicles, which would herald the strike team’s arrival, but all that met his ears was a mocking silence.

“Very good. Keep doing as you’re told and your chances of survival are excellent.” She was speaking to John as she approached, but her eyes were on Sherlock. When they were less than a foot apart, John noticed some startling similarities in their profiles: same nose, same full lips.

“Well,” she said, looking him up and down with undisguised smugness, “we meet again sooner than I expected... Uncle Sherlock.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **beta:** chasingriver

Uncle?

John bristled at the cruel reminder that Sherlock was indeed an uncle- to a teenaged boy for whom time was running out, fast.

When he worked in Sarah's clinic, John had encountered several teenaged girls who'd been classified as troublemakers. They sat there in the waiting rooms, scowling and muttering at their parents or guardians while they waited to see the child psychiatrist who came in twice a week. Astrid was different. Beneath her coy and mocking veneer was a genuine malignancy. She may not have been pointing a gun at Sherlock and John right now, but that didn't mean she wouldn't kill them if she had to.

Or _wanted_ to.

Sherlock strode over to her, waving his gloved hand in irritation at the rifle barrels that swerved toward him. If he was, like John, unsettled by the disparity between her youth and her aura of pure malice, he didn't let on.

"I am an uncle to only one person, and it certainly isn't you, despite our unusual physical similarities. I'll also have you know that we didn't come here alone. Reinforcements will arrive any minute now."

Astrid's grin uncannily resembled Sherlock's trademark victory smirk. "You really think we never prepared for such an invasion?"

"It's obvious that our eventual arrival was anticipated. I must congratulate Mayberry: the bloody shirt and the sniper in the trees achieved their intended effect. He's shown himself to be quite resourceful throughout this entire affair. Which, incidentally, is now over."

Astrid arched her eyebrow. "Oh really?"

She was so nonchalant that John decided she had to either be a sociopath or have an escape plan in motion. Maybe both.

Sherlock scanned her from head to toe. "You're planning to escape by boat, aren't you?" To John, he added, "Given her rapid arrival from London, she could only have come here by air. She clearly doesn't tolerate that method of travel very well: her skin is light green beyond the makeup line, and her eyes are bloodshot, which is a common side effect of repeated vomiting. She won't be airborne any time soon unless she's knocked unconscious first."

_Nausea is also a common side effect of most cancer therapies_ , John thought. But all he said was, "What are you doing out here anyway, Astrid? Why aren't you scarpering off with the rest?"

Her grin widened into a smile that made her look like a baby piranha.

"I thought you'd be the one to ask that question," she chided Sherlock. "You're slipping." Turning her attention to John, she said, "I'm merely out here to engage your attention with some meaningless conversation until Mr. Mayberry and Alexei have safely reached the departure point."

"Then what?" John demanded. "You'll kill us and leave a mess to keep the rescue team busy?"

"Killing you is not part of the plan, Dr. Watson. But don't push your luck."

"And what about Alexei?" Forgetting that he hadn't yet told anyone about the boy's intended fate, he blurted, "You're the one Mayberry is sacrificing him for, aren't you?"

Astrid's grin disappeared.

Sherlock swerved to face him. "John? What are you talking about?"

John knew that there'd be a reckoning later for holding back information, but right now he hurtled onward, trying to buy enough time for Mycroft's team to reach them.

"What's your diagnosis? Pituitary carcinoma? Pineoblastoma?" As part of his residency, John had worked in the cancer treatment unit at London's Royal Free Hospital. Recalling the various intracranial tumours and their devastating symptoms, he said, "Whatever it is, I'm sorry. But it doesn't justify what Mayberry's planning to do."

She blanched, and then reddened. Anger -and, John suspected, rekindled fear, made her eyes blaze.

"It justifies _everything_ ," she spat.

John persisted. "Why Alexei? Someone with Mayberry's resources could easily find a legal donor for whatever transplant you need. Is this part of a personal vendetta against Mycroft Holmes?"

"No, but making him suffer is a definite bonus."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean? What's he ever done to you?" John clenched his fists, but one of the minders snapped, "Don't even think about it, mate."

He slowly uncurled his fingers, willing himself to stay in control.

"Ultimately, it doesn't really matter," he declared. "As Sherlock just said, this whole thing is finished. _Mayberry_ is finished. Again, I'm truly sorry for what you're going through. But Alexei is not going to die so that you can live."

Although still visibly shocked by John's outburst, Sherlock scrutinised Astrid once more.

"Of course," he said slowly. "I'd attributed your thinning hair and shapeless body to the atrocious diet of the average British teenager. But both can also be caused by radiation therapy. That also explains your hideous complexion."

Her laugh was brief and derisive.

"You disappoint me," she told him. "I've spent months reading stories of your incomparable genius on Dr. Watson's blog. I believed I had a lot to live up to."

Sherlock scowled. "Is that why Alexei was targeted? When you realised you needed a transplant, you begged your clever daddy to abduct my nephew for that purpose? Most fans just take camera phone photos and steal my rubbish."

"Wrong again. John Mayberry is _not_ my daddy. But do carry on. Watching you blindly guess like this is quite entertaining."

Listening fervently for any sounds that would signal the team's arrival, John said, "Just who the hell are you then, really?"

Her lips tightened. "When you speak to Mycroft Holmes again, ask him about Vernet. He'll probably lie to you, though. He's spent so many years trying to forget: guilt doesn't appear to be a feeling he tolerates well."

John glanced at Sherlock, but the detective clearly had no idea what she was talking about.

Before the conversation could continue, a text alert punctured the air. Astrid took out her mobile and read the message.

"Ah. It's time." She put the phone away. "As much as I've enjoyed this little repartee, I must be going. I will be sure to give Alexei your best."

John tried not to panic. The moment Astrid and her guards departed, the trail leading to Alexei would be broken. His mind raced, trying to think of something to make her linger just a bit longer.

_Where the hell is the goddamned team?_

"Wait. What does this Vernet have to do with you? Or Mayberry?"

She shook her head. "I've said enough. Now, I know that the temptation to follow us will be too great for either of you, which leaves me with no choice but to make sure you stay put."

John felt his blood turn to ice when she reached into her leather jacket and took out an automatic that looked huge in her small hand.

"You said you weren't going to shoot us!"

"No, I said we weren't going to _kill_ you. I do hope you saved your old cane, Dr. Watson, because you'll be needing it for awhile." As she took aim, she added, "Your limp will not be psychosomatic this time."

John was pretty sure that he shouted, "NO!" first, although Sherlock's yell came so quickly afterward that their voices harmonised. There was a small explosion, a flash of light, and a pain that seared his right thigh and sent him falling heavily onto his side. He could feel Sherlock's wiry arms around him, holding him tight as footsteps receded in the distance.

"John, please look at me, John...you'll be all right."

John wanted to tell him to follow Astrid and her guards, to follow Alexei's trail, but his tongue felt like lead.

_She didn't shoot Sherlock too._

_Because she knew he'd never leave me like this._

_Stupid, loyal sod._

He stared up at his best friend. "I'll be... all right. Go... Alexei..."

Gentle yet trembling hands lowered him to the grass. John prayed that Sherlock was obeying him instead of merely making him more comfortable, but blacked out before he could be sure.


	15. Chapter 15

When John awoke, it was under protest. His leg throbbed despite the painkillers that saturated his veins, making him suspect extensive damage. Maybe Astrid’s bullet had even broken his femur.

Biting back a whimper of fear, he opened his eyes slowly. As expected, he was in a private hospital room, hooked up to an IV. His gaze drifted to the right and took in Mycroft, who sat in the bedside chair.

The elder Holmes looked so ghastly that John temporarily forgot his own anxiety. Dark under-eye circles gave his face a cadaverous quality and the bruise from John’s fist was horribly livid. A Styrofoam cup of cooling coffee sat on the side table, but he ignored it, all attention focused on his phone.

John swallowed, wincing as his throat throbbed. “Mycroft,” he rasped.

Mycroft quickly put the phone aside. “You’re all right,” he said as he took John’s free hand. “You’re in Stornoway hospital.”

“My leg.” The doctor shifted it under the blankets, grimacing at the pain that stabbed up his thigh. “Is it...”

“The bullet went right through your thigh muscle. It was a clean shot, calculated to temporarily stop you, nothing more.”

_Oh, thank God_. John exhaled deeply. He’d need crutches, but only temporarily.

Mycroft paused. He glanced at the closed door before continuing. “John, I am so sorry my actions placed you in this predicament.”

“I’m sorry too.” John gazed at the other man’s bruised jaw. “For hitting you, I mean.”

“Nonsense. You did the right thing. My own decision-making abilities have been highly questionable lately. I’m glad you protected me from my own instability.”

The notion of shielding someone from their own impulses reminded John of Sherlock. He tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forced him back against the pillows. Mycroft offered him a glass of water with a straw, which he accepted gratefully. After several small sips, he asked, “Where’s Sherlock?”

“He was here for hours, pacing.” Mycroft nodded toward the foot of the bed. “Ten minutes ago, he left. I expect him back momentarily.”

“Did- did he tell you what happened?”

The elder Holmes frowned. “His version, yes. Which makes me suspect that I don’t know everything. I’d be grateful if you’d enlighten me.”

“Yeah. Of course. But....” John swallowed. “Alexei?”

“Mayberry and his party escaped by boat to the mainland. Gregory and one of my employees who is a former naval officer are communicating with the police in all communities where they might have gone ashore.”

John nodded and recounted the confrontation with Astrid. Mycroft listened in calm but attentive silence until John repeated the girl’s comment about Vernet. Then he sat up very straight and what little color his face had retained was gone instantly. He opened his mouth, lips twitching as he tried to speak.

Sherlock had clearly left that part out. John wondered why, but was too alarmed to dwell on it.

“What is it?” he asked. “Who is Vernet?”

Mycroft didn’t respond. He stood and began pacing, still shaking his head. “How is it possible?” he kept muttering.

“How is what possible? Sit down and-”

The door opened and a young man in scrubs and a lab coat came in. He introduced himself as Dr. Taylor, head of the team that had treated John’s wound.

“You’re very lucky, Dr. Watson,” he said. “The bullet missed the femur and no major blood vessels or arteries were hit. You’ll want to stay off your leg as much as possible for the next few weeks, but if no unforeseen complications arise, you can be discharged tomorrow.”

John tried to listen as the other doctor rattled off a list of required antibiotics and other medications, but it was hard with Mycroft staring out the window and rocking on his heels. The air was electric with the intensity of his thoughts: Sherlock emitted the same frantic energy when he was deep in his mind palace, solving a complex mental puzzle.

“Thank you, Doctor,” John said when Dr. Taylor finally stopped talking. He hadn’t heard much of what the man said, and resolved to examine his chart later. Right now he needed to talk to Mycroft. “I’ll let you know if I have any questions.”

After the physician left, John tried to sit up again. This time the dizziness wasn’t as gut-churning, and he was able to remain upright.

“Mycroft, who is Vernet?”

The elder Holmes spun around. “ _Was,_ ” he barked. “Who _was_ Vernet?”

“What?”

Mycroft blinked rapidly. John saw tears in his eyes.

“John, the young lady who shot you knows more about me than my own brother.”

“More than Sherlock? What are you talking about?”

Mycroft returned to the bedside chair and collapsed into it, holding his face in his hands. “How is it possible?”

John waited. Finally the elder Holmes looked up.

“I’m going to tell you something that not even Sherlock knows. I will ask you to keep it confidential. Once you hear me out, you will understand why.”

John’s heartbeat quickened. He was suddenly anxious, suspecting that what he was about to learn would alter his perception of Mycroft, if not his feelings. But he remained silent and kept his expression supportive.

“I’ve always told you that Sherlock is my only brother, and that’s the truth. But he’s not the only sibling I ever had.”

John’s jaw dropped. Mycroft looked more than pained: he was positively anguished.

“Sherlock was a twin. He had a sister. _I_ had a sister. Her name was Vernet.” The elder Holmes trembled lightly all over. “She died at at the age of three. Partly because of me.”

John reeled. He’d been expecting the elder Holmes to admit to another old affair, this one with more malignant consequences. With a dead child involved, this confession hit someplace deeper. “Go on,” he managed to say. “What- what happened?”

“It was a Sunday in May. I was ten.” Mycroft’s voice dulled to a monotone. “The weather was unseasonably hot, so our mother asked me to take Sherlock and Vernet to the private beach near our summer estate. The twins played on the shoreline while I sat down with a book. I fell asleep.” He bit his lip. When he released it, blood threaded down his chin. “When I woke up, Sherlock was sitting beside me, looking at my book, and Vernet was gone. I asked him where she went, and he said he didn’t know. I looked everywhere for her. Then I found her shoes floating in the water. That was when Sherlock admitted that he’d pushed her in to make her stop annoying him.”

Mycroft was on the verge of weeping. But he took several deep breaths until he was able to continue.

“No body was found: the police presumed it had been washed out to sea. I told them that I was to blame, and in a certain sense I was. But Sherlock told our parents the truth: he was too young to appreciate the severity of what he’d done. To protect him from future trauma, they made her disappear a second time. Her photos and possessions were removed and the servants and I were forbidden to mention her to him. Due to his young age, he quickly forgot about her. But I couldn’t.”

Unable to speak, John squeezed Mycroft’s hand. The latter squeezed it back before resuming.

“She was a brilliant little girl, John, even at three. In fact, Vernet made Sherlock look like an absolute idiot. Sometimes I wonder-” He paused. “I wonder if Sherlock acted out of jealousy. Our parents and the servants were always praising her cleverness.”

The idea that his best friend would cause his own sibling to drown sent a chill through John. He pushed the horrible imagery from his mind and said, “Mycroft, that’s an absolute tragedy. But Sherlock was little more than baby. He couldn’t have realised the enormity of what he did.”

“I know. That’s why I blame myself. if I hadn’t napped like an indolent fool, it would never have happened.”

“Listen.” John leaned forward. “When Harry became an alcoholic, I blamed myself too. I’d promised our parents that I would watch over her, force her into a clinic if I had to. But I wasn’t as diligent as I’d vowed to be. Medical school and the military got in the way. You could argue that I chose a career over my own sister. But I finally accepted that I couldn’t take responsibility for another person’s choices.”

“Always so wise. Another reason why I love you.” Mycroft leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “Once I was in a position to do so, I removed Vernet’s birth certificate, the police report, and all other official documents from the record. So Sherlock would never find out and do something worse than shoot cocaine. I was thorough. But Mayberry and this Astrid girl have found out somehow.”

“Why do you think they would do that though? What does it have to do with taking Alexei?”

Before Mycroft could respond, the door opened so abruptly that both men exclaimed. Sherlock barged into the room, face a mask of confusion and anger. For a moment, John thought he’d overheard everything. Then the younger Holmes held out a printed sheet.

“This hospital has a small forensics lab that I availed myself of when you went into surgery,” he informed John. Then his stare shifted to his brother. “I extracted DNA from Astrid’s hair sample and ran the results in that DNA database you maintain. Either your system is flawed or you have something to tell me, because according to this-” his fingers crushed the paper “-her DNA is a near-perfect match to mine.”


End file.
